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THE 




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AND 



SONG 



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OF 



IRELAND. 



EDITED BY 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY, 

EDITOR OF "THE BOSTON PILOT;" AUTHOR OF "SONGS FROM SOUTHERN SEAS;'' "SONGS, LEGENDS 

AND BALLADS;" "MOONDYNE;" " THE STATUES IN THE BLOCK; " " IN BOHEMIA," AND 

"THE KING'S MEN: A TALE OF TO-MORROW." 

WITH THE 

PUBLISHER'S SUPPLEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

THE WHOLE FORMING A STANDARD 




OF 





AMD 




AND 



A BIOGRAPHICAL PORTRAIT GALLERY OF HER POETS. 



ILLUSTRATED WITH OVER ONE HUNDRED CHOICE ENGRAVINGS. 



NEW YORK : 
GAY BROTHERS & CO., 

3O, 32 & 34 READE STREET. 



COPYRIGHTED 1887, 

BY 

JOHN BOYLE O'REII*L,Y. 

COFYKIGUTED 1889, BY GAT HltivrilKlc." & CO. 






PUBLISHERS' ANNOUNCEMENT. 



" THE Poetry and Song of Ireland " is the outgrowth of a most excellent 
collection of poems, for which the Publishers, in 1886, secured Mr. John Boyle 
O'Reilly as Editor, to make such revision and additions as seemed necessary, as 
well as to prepare biographical notices of all the poets embraced in the work. 

The first edition, issued in 1887, as prepared by Mr. O'Eeilly (which is retained 
unaltered in the present volume), was so well received that the Publishers 
immediately decided to greatly enlarge the scope of the work and make it a 
Standard Encyclopaedia of Erin's Poetry and Song." The result will be seen 
in the " Publishers' Supplement," beginning at page 815, wherein selections in 
great number and variety are given from many authors not previously repre- 
sented in the compilation. 

The biographies of the poets appearing in the " Supplement " have, for the 
convenience of the reader, been arranged in the same alphabetical series with 
those printed in the previous edition. 

It is believed that the present edition of " The Poetry and Song" embraces 
selections from a larger number of the Irish poets than has hitherto appeared in 
any one volume. The principle followed in admitting new selections to the 
present edition of the work has been to admit verses of real merit, regardless of 
the degree of fame enjoyed by the author. 

In the biographical department of the work will be found a brief sketch of 
each poet. If in a few instances the sketches are not as full as might be desired, 
we trust that the difficulty of securing material of this kind will be taken into 
account, as much of it has never before appeared in permanent form. In con- 
nection with the biographies the publishers have given portraits of all poets 
whose likenesses they have been able to secure, having put forth no inconsider- 
able effort and expense in the attempt to secure portraits of all. 

The Publishers are greatly indebted, and desire to express their thanks to 
the many friends of the work who have given aid in the preparation of the 
present edition, and trust that the same kindly interest and co-operation will be 
extended by both old and new friends for the further enrichment of succeeding 
editions. 

The Publishers are confident that the compilation will prove to be a thor 
oughly representative one of the best work of the Irish poets, and will fill a long 
felt want in giving within the compass of one volume a collection of verse worthy 
of the poetic genius of the " Land of Poets." 

They are assured that the present edition of " The Poetry and Song " will 
afford to all lovers of Ireland's muse a rich symposium of the choicest fruit of 
Crin's bards in every land and every age. 



Erin's bardi 



THE EDITOR'S SHARE IN THE WORK. 



Upon the appearance of the first edition of "Poetry and Song," a question 
-was raised in the public press regarding Mr. John Boyle O'Reilly's share in 
the work as editor, and the publishers' right to use his name. Mr. O'Reilly has 
not conceded the necessity and importance of his publicly correcting these ad- 
verse comments. Under these circumstances the publishers, as a matter of 
public interest, and in order to protect their reputation, think themselves just- 
ified, and guilty of no breach of good faith, if to settle this question beyond 
all doubt they print herewith, in full, a fac-simile of the document drawn up in 
Mr. O'Reilly's own handwriting, outlining in advance the work he deemed 
proper to be done, which he afterward undertook, consummated, and received 
pay for as stipulated. 

The publishers not only had full authority to use the editor's name but 
it was obligatory upon them to do so, as will be seen by reference to the 
clause in which Mr. O'Reilly wrote " my name to follow the book and 
copyright." 

If further evidence were wanting as to whether Mr. O'Reilly personally 
edited the volume, his desire to be held fully responsible therefor, expressed 
in an unsolicited letter to the publishers, dated June llth, 1886, should be con- 
clusive. In this letter, written upon his completion of the work, he states in re- 
gard to his relation thereto " The literary part is mine, the business part yours. ' 

The entire work prepared by Mr. O'Reilly, including the biographical 
sketches, is retained unaltered in the present volume which also contains the 
" Publishers' Supplement " to the second edition. 





\X^-O *J 



(Lt^UyS^ w - ' 







INTRODUCTION, 






THE many-sided Celtic nature has no more distinct aspect than its poetic 
one. The Celt is a born poet or lover of poetry. His mental method is sym- 
bolic like a Persian rather than picturesque like an Italian or logical like an 
/Anglo-Saxon. 
The Poet has been more highly honored by the Irish race than by any other, 
except perhaps, the Jews. But the Jewish poet was removed from the masses, 
a man apart, a monitor, a Prophet. The Irish poet and bard was the very 
voice of the people, high and low, sad and merry the song-maker, the croon- 
chanter, the story-teller, the preserver of history, the rewarder of heroes. 

In the old days of Celtic freedom, art and learning, the poet was part of the 
retinue or household organization of every Irish prince or chieftain. 

The claim of the poet in Arthur O'Shaughnessy's exquisite ode is nowhere 
more readily allowed than in Ireland: 

" WE are the music-makers, 

And we are the dreamers of dreams, 
Wandering by lone sea-breakers, 

And sitting by desolate streams: 
World-losers and world-forsakers, 

On whom the pale moon gleams; 
Yet we are the movers and shakers, 

Of the world forever, it seems. 

" With wonderful deathless ditties, 
We build up the world's great cities, 

And out of a fabulous story 

We fashion an empire's glory; 
One man with a dream, at pleasure, 

Shall go forth and conquer a crown; 
And three with a new song's measure, 

Can trample a kingdom down. 

" A breath of our inspiration, 
Is the life of each generation; 

A wondrous thing of our dreaming, 

Unearthly, impossible-seeming, 
The soldier, the king and the peasant 

Are working together in one, 
Till our dream shall become their present, 

And their work in the world be done." 



T i INTRODUCTION. 

The true nature of a developed race is best tested by its abstractions. Not 
by the digging of mines, the building of cities or the fighting of battles, but by 
the singing of songs, the weaving of folk-lore, the half -unconscious plaint or 
laugh of the Kited melody. These are the springs from the very heart of the 
mountain, and the subtle meanings of the whole descending river of centuries 
are only the hidden voices of the fountain-head. 

To the end of the stream, the art-voice of a distinct people is distinct. An 
Irish song is as peculiarly Irish as a round tower or the interwoven decoration 
traced on a Celtic cross. 

The latest expressions of Irish poets are even more purely characteristic of 
the race than those of a century ago, or half a century. A century ago, the 
Irish mind had hardly begun to think in English, and the heart had absolutely 
no voice but the beloved and eloquent language of the Gael. All the cultivated 
poetry of the 18th century was cast in English moulds. The old songs of Ire- 
land were lost in the transition; and for a whole century or more the Irish 
people made no songs or only those of a rude versification. They carried the 
ancient wordless music in their hearts; the wandering piper and harper played 
the dear melodies and planxties to them; the ploughboy whistled and the milk- 
maid sung the archaic airs; and so they were preserved like the disconnected 
jewels of a queen's necklace, till the master-singer came, eighty years ago, and 
gathered them up lovingly and placed them forever in his precious setting of 
the " Melodies." Ireland's indebtedness to Thomas Moore is inestimable. 

English has now become the Irishman's native tongue; and his oriental mind 
is putting it to strange and beautiful uses. For instance: a few years ago, the 
lamented poet, Dr. Eobert Dwyer Joyce, who was a physician in Boston, was 
returning to Ireland in broken health (he returned only to die in the land of 
his love). A brother Irishman and poet of Boston, the Rev. Henry Bernard 
Carpenter, sent after him a " Vive Valeque," (the complete poem is contained 
in this collection,) a superb illustration of Celtic imagery, pathos, and rhythm: 

" O SADDEST of all the sea's daughters, lerne, dear mother isle, 
Take home to thy sweet, still waters thy son whom we lend thee awhile. 
Twenty years has he poured out his song, epic echoes heard in our street, 
Twenty years have the sick been made strong as they heard the sound of his feet. 
For few there be in his lands whom Apollo deigns to choose 
On whose heads to lay both his hands in medicine-gift and the muse. 
Double-grieved because double-gifted now take him and make strong again 
The heart long winnowed and sifted on the threshing-floor of pain. 
Saving others, he saved not himself, like a shipmaster staunch and brave 
Whose men leave the surge-beaten shelf while he sinks alone in the wave. 
The child in the night cries ' mother,' and straight one dear hand gives peace; 
lerne, be kind to our brother; speak thou, and his plague shall cease. 
Thou gavest him once as revealer song-breath and the starry scroll. 
Give him now as his heart's best healer, life-breath and balms for the soul." 

And nowhere could a bolder example of the facility of the Celt to use outer 



INTRODUCTION. vii 

things to express the inward image than these lines from John Savage's poem 
on " Washington :"- 

" Could I have seen thee in the council bland, 

Firm as a wall, but as deep stream thy manner; 

Or when, at trembling Liberty's command, 

Facing grim havoc like a flag-staff stand, 
The squadrons rolling round thee like a banner! " 

But among the latest and surely one of the best examples of true Celtic 
passion and poetry a voice as mystical and as spiritual as the winds of Ossian 
are the poems of Fanny Parnell. Crushed out, like the sweet life of a bruised 
flower, these " Land League Songs " are the very soul-cry of a race. The life 
of the singer was fast wearing away when they were written; and she hurried 
their publication in the form most suited to circulation among the poorest 
readers, wishing to see the little book before she died. All her poems breathe 
depths of love that seem like the actual breath of existence. Here is one that 
is the utterance of an antique Celtic soul: 

" As the breath of the musk-rose is sweetest 'mid flowers, 
As the palm like a queen o'er the forest-trees towers, 
As the pearl of the deep sea 'mid gems is the fairest, 
As the spice-cradled phoenix 'mid birds is the rarest, 
As the star that keeps guard o'er Flath-Innis shines brightest, 
As the angel-twined snow-wreaths 'mid all things are whitest, 
As the dream of the singer his faint speech transcendeth, 
As the rapture of martyrs all agony endeth, 
As the rivers of Aidenn 'mid earth's turbid waters, 
As Una the Pure One 'mid Eve's fallen daughters, 

So is Erin, my shining one, 

So is Erin, my peerless one! " 

If there existed no other specimen of Gaelic verse, this poem, "Erin, my 
Queen ! " might be taken as a translation of a high order. In the form of her 
verse, as well as in its purpose, Fanny Parnell was an inspired Irish poet, ex- 
pressing in sound, sense, and sight the symbolic meaning of the Gael. 

In all the history of poetry, I know nothing more sadly beautiful than the 
song she wrote just before her death, when the awful vision must have already 
come to her in the night, and when the pure spirit was only held down strongly 
by one great sacrificial earthly love. With the shadow upon her face, she 
bravely wrote down as the title of her poem the words " POST-MORTEM," and 
after them placed the date, "August 27, 1881," as if she had measured the dis- 
tance to be traversed, and had grown so familiar with the desolate path as to 
mark it as she went. I was in constant communication with her at this time, 
in relation to the publication of her book; and I know that if ever poet died 
with the love-cry on her lips, it was this dear singer in her death-song: 



*iii INTRODUCTION. 

POST-MORTEM. 

AUG. 27, 1881. 
" SHALL mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? 

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? 

Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze 
Breaks at last upon thy story? 

" When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, 

As a sweet, new sister hail thee, 

Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, 
That have known but to bewail thee? 

" Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, 

When all men their tribute bring thee? 
Shall the mouth be 'clay, that sang thee in thy squalor, 
When all poets' mouths shall sing thee? 

" Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings 

Of thy exiled sons returning! 

I should hear, though dead and mouldered, and the grave damps 
Should not chill my bosom's burning. 

" Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them 

'Mid the shamrocks and the mosses, 
And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver, 
As a captive dreamer tosses. 

" I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, 

Giant-sinews I should borrow, 
Crying, ' O my brothers, I have also loved her, 
In her lowliness and sorrow. 

" ' Let me join with you the jubilant procession, 

Let me chant with you her story; 
Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, 
Now mine eyes have seen her glory.' " 

No land in human history has evoked deeper or more sacrificial devotion 
than Ireland; and, it is fitting that her poets should be the voice of this pro- 
found feeling. There are joyous notes in their gamut, they sing at times mer- 
rily, boldly, amorously; but the unceasing undertone is there, like a river in a 
forest. How touching is the question of D'Arcy McGee, written in a strange 
country, where he had earned fame and power: 

" AM I remember'd in Erin 

I charge you, speak me true 
Has my name a sound, a meaning 

In the scenes my boyhood knew ? 
Does the heart of the Mother ever 

Recall her exile's name ? 
For to be forgot in Erin, 

And on earth is all the same." 



INTRODUCTION. 



IX 



But the days of gloom and travail are passing away from Ireland, and her 
scattered children "are like the ocean sand." Generations intensely Irish in 
blood and sympathies have never seen Ireland. They have been born under 
American, Australian and Argentine skies; they wander by Canadian rivers 
and vast American lakes; they tend their flocks on South African and New 
Zealand valleys. And the fancy of the poet must feed on what it sees as well 
as on what it dreams. Arthur O'Shaughnessy's noble poem, " The Song of a 
Fellow Worker," unconsciously brings to mind a street in London for his life 
was passed in the vast city. In his almost peerless prefatory ode (to "Music 
and Moonlight,") he is abstract as a Greek of old one of the singers for man- 
kind, unrelated, unrestrained. There is a rare far-sighted philosophy in this 
dream of a poet, calmly placing his non-productive class highest and apart from 
the industrious, the potential, the ambitious, the utilitarian. 

"Among eminent persons," says Emerson, "those who are most dear to 
men are not of the class which the economist calls producers; they have nothing 
in their hands; they have not cultivated com nor made bread; they have not 
led out a colony nor invented a loom." So sings Arthur O'Shaughnessy: 

"But we, with our dreaming and singing, 

Ceaseless and sorrowless we! 
The glory about us clinging 

Of the glorious futures we see, 
Our souls with high music ringing: 

O men! it must ever be 
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, 

A little apart from ye. 

" For we are afar with the dawning 

And the suns that are not yet high, 
And out of the infinite morning 

Intrepid you hear us cry 
How, spite of your human scorning, 

Once more God's future draws nigh, 
And already goes forth the warning 

That ye of the past must die." 

Patriots, too, in other causes than Erin's are "the sea-divided Gael." No 
love for Ireland was ever more passionately laid around her feet than Father 
Abram Eyan's devotion to the South and her " Lost Cause." There is no deeper 
note of manly dejection, no more poignant word of defeat than his "Con- 
quered Banner." The sweat and smoke-stain of the battle are on his face 
when the waved hand puts aside the beloved flag: 

" Furl the Banner, for 'tis weary; 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, 
Furl it, fold it it is best. 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it, 



x INTRODUCTION. 

And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 
Furl it, hide it, let it rest," 

Father Eyan is a fitting voice for a Lost Cause. At his brightest he is sad. 
The shadow of the South's failure in the field seems hardly ever to lift from his 
spirit. His is the yearning of a soul that cannot compromise that walks with 
death " down the valley of Silence " sooner than accept new and strange condi- 
tions. But with the indestructible will of the poet and patriot he sends out 
" Sentinel Songs " to keep watch and ward over those who fell in the brave 
fight, that the victor may not trample on their graves and blot out their names 
forever: 

" Songs, march! he gives command, 

Keep faithful watch and true; 
The living and dead of the conquered land 
Have now no guards save you. 

" List! Songs, your watch is long, 
The soldiers' guard was brief; 
Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong 
Ye may not seek relief." 

Another phase of the Irish poetical nature, and a noble one, is moral, pro- 
phetic, and symbolical. This is well exemplified by William Allingham, a poet 
who touches two strong Irish keys, the peasant's song and the philosopher's 
vision, on consecutive pages as for instance, his popular " Farewell to Bally- 
shannon and the Winding Banks of Erin," and his wonderful little poem, " The 
Touchstone." Another poem of Allingham's seems to me to be one of the best 
examples of an Irish song, for its melody and spirit "Among the Heather." 
Observe the flow of these lines: 

"One evening walking out, I o'ertook a modest colleen, 
When the wind was blowing cool and the harvest-leaves were falling: 
" Is our road by chance, the same? Might we travel on together? " 
" O I keep the mountain-side," (she replied,) "among the heather." 

But Allingham's "Touchstone" is a poem of another kind altogether. It 
is the utterance of a deep thought in allegory the only means of expressing it 
whole, or without the cheap setting of mere intellectuality. The very rhythm 
suits the story as if invented for it: 

"A man there came, whence none can tell, 
Bearing a touchstone in his hand; 
And tested all things in the land 
By its unerring spell." 

The poem will be read many times during a lifetime by him who reads it 
once; and it will never be forgotten. It wiU feed the mind with rare fancy to 
reflect on the strewn ashes, each grain of which " conveyed the perfect charm. " 






INTRODUCTION. xi 

There is one remarkable feature absent from modern Irish poetry, from the 
work of poets born in Ireland and other countries: the song- maker is rare, and 
becoming rarer. Allingham has written only a few songs; McCarthy not 
many; Alfred Peroeval Graves a good many, and very good ones. In America 
the poets of the Irish have had only one eminent song-maker, Dr. Eobert Dwyer 
Joyce. His volume "Songs and Poems," is a most notable book of songs, 
written mainly to old Irish airs, which adds to their value and charm. Joyce 
had in a high degree the melody-sense and the brief one-idead and richly-chased 
song method. His ballads are stirring songs, as anyone knows who has ever 
heard the chorus of "The Iron Cannon" or "The Blacksmith of Limerick." 
In "Deirdre " and " Blanid," both noble epics, the songs interspersed are the 
high-water mark of Joyce's genius. We range the fields of literature to find 
more exquisite songs than " Forget me not," and " 0, Wind of the West that 
Bringest." Not only sweet to the ear but to the soul, the cry of the little blue- 
eyed blossom in the deadly embrace of the " bitter- fanged strong East wind: " 

" O woods of waving trees! O living streams, 
In all your noontide joys and starry dreams, 
Let me, for love, let me be unforgot! 
O birds that sing your carols while I die, 
O list to me! O hear my piteous cry 

Forget me not! alas! forget me not!" 

Joyce's life was a poem in its unrealities, achievements, agony and gloom. 
He died in the strength of manhood, beloved by the friends whom he had made, 
proudly secretive, but beyond hope, and heart-broken. He was so strong, so 
wise, and so harmless to man or woman, that his life, under fair conditions, 
would have been as fair and natural as the flow of a river. He wrote his songs 
in his happier years. He composed as he walked in the crowded city streets. 
On his daily rounds as an over-burdened physician, the strongly-marked face 
was usually pre-occupied, the sight introverted. He was always "making a 
song," or working some of his characters in or out of difficult positions. A 
friend met him once in Boston and was passed unnoticed. He stopped the 
Doctor by touching his arm, and the spell was broken. " Oh man ! " cried the 
poet, with his rich Limerick utterance, " I was getting Deirdre down from the 
tower ! she's been up there for three months, with the ladder stolen; and I 
could'nt think how I was ever to get her down, without a balloon." 

But in the streets, too, the chill of the secret grief would strike his heart like 
a breath from the grave, and the powerful form would shudder with the spirit's 
suffering. It was then he wrote the woful nameless little song in " Blanid," 
which I have called in this collection " The Cry of the Sufferer." There was no 
dainty seeking after artificial misery when Joyce wrote these lines: 

" The measured rounds of dancing feet, 
The songs of wood-birds wild and sweet, 



Xll 



INTRODUCTION. 

The music of the horn and flute, 
Of the gold strings of harp and lute 
Unheeded all shall come and go 
For I am suffering, and I know! 

No kindly counsel of a friend 

With soothing balm the hurt can mend; 

I walk alone in grief, and' make 

My bitter moan for her dear sake, 

For loss of love is man's worst woe, 

And I am suffering, and I know ! " 

Dr. Joyce won a distinct and deserved renown in America's literary capital. 
Bespect and affection met him in the street, the garret, and the drawing- 
room. Old Harvard honored him with a degree. The poor, among whom he 
labored unceasingly, and to whom he gave unstintedly of money and gratuitous 
attendance, repaid him with love. A physician, who took his vacant place and 
much of his practice, and who did not know Joyce, has since said: " He was 
an extraordinary man, and a very good man. His charity was never-ending. 
I find traces of it in every poor street and tenement-house I visit." 

The splendid "Hymnos Paionios," or song of healing, by the Eev. Henry 
Bernard Carpenter, was sent after him to Ireland as a message of love, when 
he went there to die. The poem reached him in time to bring joy to his heart 
with the knowledge that the men whom he loved in America had given love in 
return, and would keep his memory green. Very beautiful are these strong 
lines: 

"O saddest of all the sea's daughters, lerne, sweet mother isle 
Say how canst thou heal at thy waters the son whom we lend thee awhile? 
When the gathering cries implore thee to help and to heal thy kind, 
When thy dying are strewn before thee, thy living ones crouch behind, 
When about thee thy perishing children cling, crying, ' Thou only art fair, 
We have seen through their maze bewildering that the earth-gods never spare: ' 
And the wolves blood-ripe with slaughter gnaw at thee with fangs of steel; 
Thou, Niobe-Land of the water, hast many children to heal. 
Yet heal him, lerne, dear mother, thy days with his days shall increase, 
At the song of this Delphic brother, nigh half of thy pangs shall cease. 
Nor art thou, sweet friend, in a far land, all places are near on the globe, 
Our greeting wear for thy garland, our love for the festival robe. 
While we keep through glory and gloom two altar-candles for thee, 
Thy ' Blanid ' of deathless doom and thy dead but undying ' Deirdre.' " 

In adding to this fine collection of Irish poems, originally compiled some 
years ago by another hand, I am necessarily restricted in space and in the 
number of the later Irish and Irish- American poets represented. But the names 
here are likely to " hold their own " till another generation gleans the literary 
field and throws away the crumbling ears. 

It is remarkable that Boston, the literary centre of the Anglo-American stock, 






INTRODUCTION. xiii 



should also promise a similar harvest for the Irish-American. Here at one and 
the same time were Dr. Joyce, Eev. H. B. Carpenter, Louise Imogen Guiney, 
James Jeffrey Eoche, Mrs. M. E. Blake and Katharine Con way poets winning 
garlands outside the limits of their own race. Indeed, no truer New England 
singer than Louise Guiney has come in a generation. Her ' ' Gloucester Harbor ' ' 
is a memorable poem. How striking are these stanzas: 

" North from the beautiful islands, 
North from the headlands and highlands, 

The long sea-wall, 

The white ships flee with the swallow; 
The day-beams follow and follow, 

Glitter and fall. 

" The brown ruddy children that fear not, 
Lean over the quay, and they hear not 

Warnings of lips; 

For their hearts go a-sailing, a-sailing, 
Out from the wharves and the wailing 

After the ships!" 

It may be that the sweetest songs are sung in sorrow. An Irish air 

" is full of farewells for the dying 
And inurmurings for the dead." 

It surely is true that "Affliction is a mother whose painful throes yield many 
sons, each fairer than the other." In the past, for nearly 1000 years, the Irish 
heart-song has been shaded by the woe of desolation. Dane and Saxon have 
oppressed and harried the land. There is no sorrow so piteous as the cry of 
weakness in the strangling grasp of Power. This cry is heard in all the songs 
of the Gael even in the most joyous. 

The future has a hoarded summer time for Ireland when her ancient glory 
may be revived and surpassed. In the dream of Clarence Mangan he pictures 
the Irish realm of the 13th century: 

" I walked entranced 

Through a land of morn ; 
The sun, with wondrous excess of light, 

Shone down and glanced 

Over seas of corn, 
And lustrous gardens aleft and right. 

Even in the clime 

Of resplendent Spain, 
Beams no such sun upon such a land; 

But it was the time, 

'Twas in the reign, 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand." 

The despair of the past is now rarely expressed by an Irish poet and never 



xiv INTRODUCTION. 

by the poet of the exiled race. Those who have wholly sung for Americans 
have expressed as deep love as those who had to stay and see the mother- 
country in her sufferings. The poems of Daniel Connolly and James J. Eoche 
are notable illustrations, as for instance this fine poem from Mr. Roche: 

ANDROMEDA. 

THEY chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone; 
The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his own; 
The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there alone. 
Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her, 
Ye left her there alone ! 

My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy pain; 
The night that hath no morrow was brooding on the main; 
But lo ! a light is breaking of hope for thee again. 
'Tis Perseus' sword a-flaining, thy dawn of day proclaiming 

Across the western main. 
O Ireland ! O my country ! he comes to break thy chain ! 

When the foreign blight is removed from Ireland; when the valleys and hills 
and rivers ring with happy Irish voices, the voices of the owners of the land; 
when the long silence is broken by the whirr of busy wheels; when the dark 
treasures are dug from the earth and fashioned into lovely Art; when the nets 
of the fishers in lough and river and ocean are burdened daily with the heaping 
wealth; when the ships sail in and out on every tide from the harbor-serried 
coast; when Irish marbles and porphyries are carved into precious forms of 
beauty, and Irish metals are worked into shapes of loveliness and use; when the 
Irishman stretches out his hand to the world full of his kindred and rejoices in 
other men's joy instead of constantly grieving over his own grief then there 
shall come poets to Ireland with songs attuned to a new spirit, and the voice of 
the Celt shall be heard through a thousand years of triumph as it has been 
through a thousand years of pain. 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



LIST OF PORTRAITS. 



Michael Joseph Balfe xxxviii 

John Banim xxxix 

Riuht Rev. George Berkeley xl 

Joseph Brenan xli 

John Brougham xlii 

Very Rev. Thomas N. Burke xliii 

Rev. T. A. Butler. xliv 

William Carleton xlv 

Gerald Carleton xlvi 

Henry Bernard Carpenter xlvi 

P. 8. Cassidy xlvii 

Michael Cavanagh xlviii 

Joseph I. C. Clarke xlix 

Richard W. Collender 1 

William Collins li 

Katharine E. Conway lii 

Rev. John Costello liii 

Daniel Crilly liv 

John Philpot Curran liv 

Thomas Davis Iv 

Francis Davis Iv. 

Eugene Davis Ivi 

Michael Davitt Ivii 

Aubrey De Vere Iviii 

Michael Doheny lix 

Eleanor C. Donnelly lix 

Bartholomew Dowling Ix 

Charles Gavan Duffy Ixii 

Maurice Francis Egan Ixiii 

Robert Emmet . ... Ixiii 

Samuel Ferguson Ixiv 

Una (Mrs. A. E. Ford.) Ixv 

William Geoghegan Ixv 

Minnie Gilmore Ixvii 

Oliver Goldsmith Ixviii 

Lawrence G. Goulding Ixix 

Alfred Percival Graves Ixix 

Gerald Griffin Ixx 

Charles G. Halpine (Miles O'Reilly) ixxii 

Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans Ixxiii 

Robert Dwyer Joyce Ixxv 

Charles J. Kickham .' Ixxvi 

Charles J. Lever Ixxvii 

John Locke Ixxviii 

Samuel Lover . Jxxix 



Daniel R. Lyddy Ixxix 

Edward Lysaght Ixxx 

Michael Joseph McCann Ixxxi 

Denis Florence McCarthy Ixxxli 

Justin Huntly McCarthy Ixxxiii 

Rev. William James McClure Ixxxiv 

Hugh Farrar McDermott Ixxxv 

Thomas D'Arcy McGee Ixxxvi 

John J. McGinnis Ixxxvii 

Richard Machale Ixxxviii 

Dr. William Maginn Ixxxviii 

Francis Mahoney (Father Prout) Ixxxix 

James Clarence Mangan xc 

Thomas Francis Meagher xci 

Rev. C. P. Meehan xcii 

Thomas Moore xciii 

Lady Sidney Morgan xciv 

Rosa Mulholland xcv 

Fitz- James O'Brien xcvii 

T. O'D. O'Callaghan xcviii 

Mary Eva Kelly (Mrs. O'Doherty) xcix 

Judge O'Hagan. ... c 

M. J. O'Mahony ci 

E. J. O'Reilly cii 

John Boyle O'Reilly Frontispiece 

Fanny Parnell civ 

Thomas Parnell. ... cv 

Thomas Buchanan Read cvi 

James Whitcomb Riley cvi 

Hon. W. E. Robinson cvii 

James Jeffrey Roche oviii 

O'Donovan Rossa oviii 

Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J cix 

Rev. Abram J. Ryan ox 

John Savage cxi 

Michael Scanlan cxii 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan cxiii 

A. M. Sullivan cxiv 

T. D. Sullivan cxv 

Dean Swift cxv 

Katharine Tynan cxvi 

Michael J. Walsh cxviii 

Richard Henry Wilde cxvii:' 

Lady Wilde (Speranza) cxix 

Oscar Wilde cxx 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



TE.OMAS MOORE. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xciii 

IRISH MELODIES. 

Preface 27 

Go where Glory waits Thee 31 

War Song Remember the Glories of 

Brien the Brave 31 

Erin ! the Tear and the Smile in thine 

Eyes . 32 

Oh, Breathe not his Name 32 

When He who adores Thee 32 

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls 32 
Oh think not my Spirits are always as 

light 33 

Flynotyet 33 

Though the Last Glimpse of Erin with 

Sorrow I see 33 

The Meeting of the Waters 34 

Rich and Rare were the Gems she Wore 34 
As a Beam o'er the Face of the Waters 

may Glow 35 

St. Senanus and the Lady 35 

How Dear to me the Hour 35 

Take Back the Virgin Page, Written on 

Returning a Blank Book. 

The Legacy 36 

How oft has the Benshee Cried 36 

We may Roam through this World. . . 36 

Eveleen's Bower 37 

The Song of Fionnuala 37 

Let Erin Remember the Days of Old 38 

Come, Send round the Wine 38 

Svblime was the Warning 3 

Believe me, if all those Endearing Young 

Charms 39 

Erin! O Erin ! . 39 

Drink to Her 40 

Oh, Blame not the Bard 40 

While Gazing on the Moon's Light 41 

111 Omens 41 

Before the Battle 42 

After the Battle : 42 

Oh, 'tis Sweet to Think 42 

The Irish Peasant to his Mistress 43 

On Music 43 

The Origin of the Harp 44 

It is not the Tear at this Moment Shed. . 44 

Love's Young Dream 44 

I saw thy Form in Youthful Prime 45 

xvn 



The Prince's Day 45 

Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye 46 

Weep on, Weep on 46 

By that Lake whose Gloomy Shore 47 

She is far from the Land 47 

Nay, tell me not 47 

Avenging and Bright 48 

Love and the Novice 48 

What the Bee is to the Flowret 49 

This Life is all Checkered with Pleasures 

and Woes 49 

O, the Shamrock. 49 

At the Mid-hour of Night 50 

One Bumper at parting 50 

'Tis the Last Rose of Summer 51 

The young May Moon 51 

The Minstrel Boy 51 

The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni. 51 
Oh ! had we some Bright Little Isle of 

our Own 52 

Farewell ! but Whenever you Welcome 

the Hour 52 

You Remember Ellen 53 

Oh ! Doubt me Not 53 

I'd Mourn the Hopes 53 

Come o'er the Sea 54 

Has Sorrow thy Young Days Shaded?. . 54 

No, not More Welcome 55 

When First I Met Thee 55 

While History's Muse 55 

The Time I've Lost in Wooing 56 

Oh ! Where's the Slave so Lowly 56 

'Tis Gone, and Forever 57 

I Saw from the Beach 57 

Come, Rest m this Bosom 58 

Fill the Bumper Fair ! 58 

Dear Harp of my Country 58 

Remember Thee 59 

Oh for the Swords of Former Time 1 59 

Wreath the Bowl 59 

The Parallel 60 

Oh, Ye Dead 1 60 

O'Donohue's Mistress 61 

Shall the Harp then be Silent 61 

Oh, the Sight Entrancing 62 

Sweet Innisfallen 63 

'Twas one of those Dreams 63 

Fairest ! put on Awhile 64 

As Vanquish'd Erin 64 



XVI 11 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Desmond's Song 65 

I wish I was by that Dim Lake 65 

Song of Innisfail 6' 

Oh ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore 6t 

Lay his Sword by his Side 66 

The Wine-cup is Circling' 67 

Oh ! could we do with this World of Ours 6' 

The Dream of those Days 6' 

Silence is in our Festal Halls 68 

LALLA ROOKH 69 

The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan 70 

Paradise and the Peri 108 

The Fire-worshippers IIS 

The Light of the Harem 146 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Fragment of College Exercises 160 

The Same 160 

Song" Mary, I Believe thee True " 160 

To the Large and Beautiful Miss . . . 161 

Inconstancy 161 

To Julia 161 

To Rosa 161 

Written in the Blank Leaf of a Lady's 

Common-place Book 162 

Anacreontic 163 

Anacreontic 1 

Elegiac Stanzas 162 

Go and Sin No More 163 

To Rosa 162 

The Surprise 163 

A Dream 163 

Writtei in a Common-place Book called 

" The Book of Follies." 163 

The Ballad 163 

The Tear 164 

Song- -"Have you not Seen the Timid 

Tear?" 164 

Elegiac Stanzas 164 

A Night Thought 164 

Song " Sweetest Love! I'll not Forget 

Thee" 164 

The Genius of Harmony 165 

Song "When Time, who Steals our 

years Away" 166 

Peace and Glory 166 

To Cloe 167 

Lying 167 

Woman 167 

A Vision of Philosophy 167 

A Ballad" The Lake of the Dismal 

Swamp " 168 

At Night 169 

Odes to Nea (1) 169 

" (2) .'.'. 170 

Lines Written in a Storm at Sea 170 

The Steersman's Song Written aboard 

the Boston Frigate, 28th April 170 

Lines Written on Leaving Philadelphia 171 



Lines Written at the Cohoes, or Fall of 

the Mohawk River 171 

Ballad Stanzas 172 

A Canadian Boat Song Written on the 

River St. Lawrence 172 

Black and Blue Eyes '. . . 173 

Love and Time 173 

Dear Fanny 173 

From Life, without Freedom 173 

Merrily every Bosom Boundeth The 

Tyrolese Song of Liberty 174 

Sigh not thus 174 

SACRED SONGS. 

Thou art, O God 175 

The Bird let Loose 175 

Fallen is thy Throne 175 

O, Thou who dry'st the Mourner's Tear. 176 

But Who shall See 176 

This World is all a Fleeting Show 176 

Almighty God ! Chorus of Priests 177 

Sound the Loud Timbrel Miriam's Song 177 
O, Fair ! O, Purest ! Saint Augustine 
to his sister 177 

SAMUEL LOVER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxix 

The Angel's Whisper 179 

The Fairy Boy 179 

True Love can ne'er Forget 180 

Nymph of Niagara 180 

How to Ask and Have 181 

The Land of the West 181 

Sweet Harp of the Days that are Gone. . 182 
Oh yield not, thou Sad One, to Sighs. . . 182 

Widow Machree 182 

Molly Bawn 183 

Mother, He's Going Away 183 

The Quaker's Meeting 184 

Native Music 185 

The Charm 185 

The Four-leaved Shamrock 186 

Oh, Watch you Well by Daylight 186 

Rory O'More ; or, Good Omens 186 

The Blarney 187 

The Chain of Gold 187 

Give me my Arrows and give me my 

Bow 188 

The Hour Before Day 188 

Macarthy's Grave (A Legend of Killar- 

ney) 189 

St. Kevin (A Legend of Glendalough). . . 189 

The Indian Summer 1 90 

The War-Ship of Peace 190 

An Honest Heart to Guide Us 190 

The Birth of Saint Patrick 191 

The Arab 191 

Fag-an-bealach 192 

The Bridge of Sighs 192 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



xix 



The Child and Autumn Leaf 193 

Forgive, but Don't Forget 193 

The Girl I Left Behind Me 193 

The Flag is Half-mast High (A ballad of 

the Walmer Watch) 194 

I Can Ne'er Forget Thee 195 

Love and Home and Native Land 195 

Memory and Hope 195 

Molly Carew 195 

My Dark-Haired Girl 196 

Nora's Lament 197 

The Silent Farewell 197 

'Twas the Day of the Feast 197 

What will You do, Love? 198 

Who are You ? 198 

GERALD GRIFFIN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixx 

The Bridal of Malahide (An Irish Legend) 199 

Hark ! Hark ! the Soft Bugle 201 

A Soldier a Soldier To-night is our 

Guest 201 

Aileen Aroon 201 

Know ye not that Lovely River ? 202 

'Tis, it is the Shannon's Stream 202 

I love my Love in the Morning 203 

Orange and Green 203 

Sleep that like the Couched Dove 205 

Gilli Ma Chree : 205 

Old Times ! Old Times ! 206 

A place in thy Memory, Dearest 206 

For I am Desolate 207 

The Bridal Wake 207 

Adare , 208 

The Poet's Prophecy 208 

Twilight Song 209 

The Mother's Lament 209 

You never Bade me Hope, 'tis True 210 

Like the Oak by the Fountain 210 

The Phantom City 210 

War ! War ! horrid War 210 

Gone ! Gone ! forever Gone 211 

Sonnets Addressed to Friends in Amer- 
ica, and prefixed to " Card Drawing," 
one of the tales of the Munster festivals 211 

War Song of O'Driscol 211 

My Spirit is of pensive Mould 212 

Impromptu On seeing an Iris formed by 
the Spray of the Ocean, at Miltown, 

Malbay 212 

Friendship 212 

Fame 213 

Written in Adare in 1820 213 

The Wake of the Absent 213 

On pulling some Campanulas in a Lady's 



Gr 

rpr .'V 

"Ovc 



rden . 



214 

speak of Scotland's Heroes bold. . . 214 



O, Brazil, the Isle of the Blest A Spectre 
Island, said to be sometimes visible on 
the Verge of the Western Horizon, in 

Atlantic, from the Isles on Arran 214 

Lines addressed to a Sea-gull, seen off 
the Cliffs of Moher, in the County of 

Clare 215 

The Sister of Charity 216 

To Memory 217 

The Song of the old Mendicant 217 

Would you choose a Friend ? 218 

JONATHAN SWIFT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxv 

Corinna 219 

Epigram 219 

Lines written on a Window Pane at 

Chester 219 

On Mrs. Biddy Floyd ; or the Receipt to 

Form a Beauty 219 

Would-Be Poets 220 

Twelve Articles 220 

Lesbia 220 

Epigram 230 

REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxix 

VerWert, the Parrot From the French 

of the Jesuit Gresset 221 

Hys original Innocence 221 

Hys fatall Renowne 222 

Hys evil Voyage 223 

The awfull Disco verie 225 

The Silk-worm. (A Poem from the Latin 

of Jerome Vida) 227 

The Shandon Bells 233 

The Red-breast of Aquitania 234 

L'Envoy to W. H. Ains worth, Esq 235 

The Legend of Arethusa 236 

The Ladye of Lee 236 

Life, a Bubble. A Bird's-eye View there- 
of 237 

BLARNEY SONGS. 

L Jack Bellew's Song 237 

H. Friar O'Meara's Song 238 

EH. Terry Callaghan's Song 238 

The Lament of Stella 239 

Epitaph on Father Prout 239 

The Attractions of a fashionable Irish 

Watering Place 239 

From Gresset's Farewell to the Jesuits. . 240 
Don Ignacio Loyola's Vigil in the Chapel 

of our Lady of Montserrat 240 

The Song of the Cossack 241 

Popular Recollections of Bonaparte 242 

Address to the Vanguard of the French, 
under the Duke D'Alencon, 1521 243 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Ode on the Signal Defeat of the Sultan 
Osman, by the Army of Poland and her 

Allies, September, 1621 243 

Ode on the taking of Calais, addressed to 
Henry II., King of France, by George 

Buchanan 244 

Michael Angelo's Farewell to Sculpture 246 
The Song of Brennus, or the Introduc- 
tion. of the Grape into France 247 

Wine Debtor to Water. 247 

Popular Ballad on the Battle of Lepanto. 248 
The three-colored Flag. (A prosecuted 

song) 248 

Malbrouck 249 

The Obsequies of David the Painter. 

From the French of Beranger 250 

To Prostrate Italy 251 

Ode to the Statue of Moses, at the Foot 
of the Mausoleum of Pope Julius II., 
in the Church of Saint Peter ad Vin- 
cula, Rome. The Masterpiece of 

Michael Angelo 251 

Lines addressed to the Tiber, by Ales- 

sandro Guild! 251 

The Angel of Poetry. To L. E. L 252 

" Good Dry Lodgings," according to Be- 

ranger, Songster 253 

The Carrier-dove of Athens- A Dream, 

1822 254 

The Fall of the Leaves. From the French 

of Millevoye 254 

Lines on the Burial of a Friend's Daugh- 
ter, at Passy, July 16, 1832. From the 

French of Chateaubriand 255 

Pray for Me. A Ballad from the French 
of Millevoye, on his Death-bad at the 

Village of Neuilly 355 

The French Fiddler's Lamentation 256 

Consolation, addressed by Lamartine to 
his Friend and Brother Poet, Manoel, 

banished from Portugal 256 

The Dog of the three Days. A Ballad, 

September, 1831 357 

The Mistletoe. A Type of the Heaven- 
bo. 358 

Shooting Stars 359 

A Panegyric on Geese, (1810) 259 

Ode to Time 260 

The Garret of Beranger 260- 

Political Economy of the Gypsies 261 

The God of Beranger 261 

The Autobiography of P J. De Beranger 262 
Meditations in a Wine Cellar. By the 

Jesuit Vaniere 263 

Lines on a Moth-eaten Book. From the 

Latin of Beza 265 

The Fountain of Saint Nazaro. From the 
Latin of Sannazar 266 



Petrarca's Dream. (After the Death of 

Laura) 266 

On Solar Eclipses. (A new Theory). For 

the use of the London University 266 

The Flight into Egypt. A Bal lad 267 

The Veil. An Oriental Dialogue. From 

the French of Victor Hugo 268 

The Bride of the Cymbaleer. A Ballad 

from Victor Hugo 268 

The Military Profession in France 270- 

Time and Love 270' 

Petrarca's Address to the Summer Haunt 

of Laura 271 

The Porch of Hell. (Dante) 272 

A True Ballad. Containing the Flight of 
Napoleon Bonaparte, with the Loss of 
his Sword, his Hat, and imperial Baton, 
besides a Wound in the Head; the good 
Luck of the Prussians in getting hold of 
his Valuables, in Diamonds and other 
Properties ; and lastly, the happy 
Entry of his Majesty, Louis Dix-huit, 
into Paris. From the Italian of Nicode- 

1 1 1 n s Lermil 27$ 

The Wine-cup bespoken. From the Ital- 
ian of Claudio Tolomei 273 

Village Song 274 

The Vision of Petrarca 274 

A Venetian Barcarplle 274 

Ode to the Wig of Father Boscovich, the 
celebrated Astronomer. From the Ital- 
ian of Julius Caesar Cordara 275 

The Intruder. From the Italian of Men- 

zini 275 

A Serenade: By Vittorelli 276 

The Repentance of Petrarca 276 

ODES OF HORACE. 

Ode I. To MecaenJ-s 276- 

OdeH ! , 277 

Ode HI. To the ship bearing Virgil to 

Greece 278 

Ode IV : 279 

Ode V. Pyrrha's Inconstancy 279 

Ode VI .\ 280 

Ode-VIL To Munatius Plahcus 280 

OdeVIU .1 281 

Ode IX \ 281 

, Ode X. Hymn to Mercury. . . .V 281 

Ode XI. Ad Leuconoen \ 282 

Ode XH. A Prayer for Augustus\ 282 

Ode XIII. The Poet's Jealousy. . .) 283 

Ode XIV. To the Vessel of the 'State. 

An Allegory 283 

Ode XV. The Sea-God's Warning to 

Paris 283 

Ode XVI. The Satirist's Recantation ... 284 



Ode XVII. An 
Villa.. 



Invitation to 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



xxi 



Ode XVIII 285 

Ode XIX. De Glycera 285 

Ode XX. " Pot Luuk " with Horace ... 286 
Ode XXI. To the Rising Generation of 

Rome 286 

Ode XXII 286 

Ode XXIII. A Remonstrance to Chole, 

the Bashful 287 

Ode XXIV. To Virgil. A consolatory 

Address 287 

Ode XXVI. Friendship and Poetry 

the best Antidote to Sorrow 287 

Ode XXVEL A Banquet Scene Toast 

and Sentiment 288 

Ode XXIX. The Sage Turned Soldier.. 288 
Ode XXX. The Dedication of Glyceras 

Chapel 289 

Ode XXXI. The Dedication of Apollo's 

Temple 289 

Ode XXXII. An occasional Prelude of 

the Poet to his Songs 289 

Ode XXXIV. The Poet's Conversion.. 290 
Ode XXXV. An Address to Fortune.. . 290 
Ode XXXVI. A Welcome to Numida. . 291 
Ode XXXVII. The Defeat of Cleopatra. 

Ajoyful Ballad 291 

Ode XXXVIII. Last Ode of Book the 

First 292 

Lib. II. Ode I. To Pollio on his Med- 
itated History 292 

Ode H. Thoughts on Bullion and the 

Currency 293 

Ode III. A Homily on Death 293 

Ode IV. Classical Love Matches 294 

Ode VI. The Attractions of Tibur and 

Tarentum 294 

Ode VH. A Fellow Soldier Welcome 

from Exile ; 295 

Ode VIH. The Rogueries of Barine 295 

DENIS P. MCCARTHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxii 

The Voyage of St. Brendan 297 

Parti. The Vocation 298 

Part II. Ara of the Saints 300 

Part HI. The Voyage 303 

Part IV. The Buried City 305 

Part V. The Paradise of Birds 309 

Part VI. The Promised Land 312 

LEGENDS AND LYRICS 

The Pillar Towers of Ireland 314 

The Lay Missioner 315 

Summer Longings 817 

A Lament 317 

The Clan of MacCaura 319 

Devotion 321 

Over the Sea. . .323 



PAGB 

Home Preference 323 

The Fireside 333 

The Vale of Shanganah 324 

The Window 325 

Advance 325 

The Emigrants, Part 1 327 

" " " II 327 

To Ethna 328 

Wings for Home. 329 

To an Infant 329 

Home Sickness 330 

Youth and Age 330 

Sunny Days in Winter 331 

Duty 331 

Order 331 

The First of the Angels 333 

Spirit Voices 333 

Truth in Song 333 

All Fools' Day 334 

The Birth of the Spring 335 

JAMES C. MANGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Ixxxix 

GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 
The Lay of the Bell. 

Preparations for Founding the Bell. 337 

Offices of the Bell 337 

The Birth-day Bell 337 

The Wedding Bell 338 

The Fire Bell 339 

The Passing Bell 840 

The Tocsin, or Alarm Bell 341 

The Destination of the Bell 341 

The Diver. A Ballad 342 

The Maiden's Plaint 344 

The Unrealities 345 

The Words of Reality 346 

The Words of Delusion 347 

The Course of Time 347 

Hope 347 

Spirits Everywhere 348 

Spring Roses 348 

The Castle Over the Sea 349 

Durand of Blonden 349 

Life is the Desert and the Solitude 350 

Light and Shade 351 

The Midnight Bell 351 

The Wanderer's Chant 351 

Not at Home 353 

Hope 352 

O Maria, Regina Misericordiae ! 353 

Love Ditty 354 

Charlemagne and the Bridge of Moon- 
beams 354 

The Minstrel's Motherland 355 

Holiness to the Lord 356 

The Grave, the Grave 356 



xx ii 



TABLE OF COXTKNTS. 



PAGE 

The Minstrel 356 

The-Rose 357 

A Voice from the invisible World 357 

A Song from the Coptic. 357 

Another Coptic Song 358 

ToEbert 358 

The Brother and the Sister 360 

The Field of Kunnersdorf 361 

The aged Landman's Advice to his Son. 362 

And then no more 36S 

The Cathedral of Cologne < 

Dale and Highway : 

A Sigh 365 

The Sheik of Mount Sinai 365 

Grabbe 366 

Freedom and Eight 368 

To the Beloved One 369 

Cheerfulness 369 

Freedom 370 

The Grave ; 371 

The German's Fatherland 371 

Be Merry and Wise v 372 

The Revenge of Duke Swerting 372 

The Student of Prague S73 

Andreas Hofer 375 

The Death of Hofer 375 

The Bereaved One 376 

Song. When the Roses blow 377 

Good Night 377 

The Midnight Review 378 

IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Dark Rosaleen 379 

Shane Bwee ; or, the Captivity of the 

Gaels 380 

A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Mau- 
rice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry Sars- 

fleld 381 

Part 1 381 

Part II 382 

Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of 

Teach Molaga 383 

The Dawning of the Day 385 

The Dream of John MacDonnell 385 

The Sorrows of Innisfail 387 

The Testament of Cathaeir Mor 337 

Rury and Darvorgilla 390 

The Expedition and Death of King 

Dathy 393 

Prince Aldfrid's Itinerary through. Ire- 
land 393 

Kinkora 394 

Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and 

Tyrconnell 395 

O'Hussey's Ode to the Maguire 39S 

Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan 399 

Welcome to the Prince 400 

Lament for Banba 401 



Ellen Bawn 401 

Love Ballad 402 

The Vision of Conor O'Sullivan 403 

Patrick Condon's Vision 403 

Sighile Ni Gara 404 

St. Patrick's Hymn before Tara 406 

APOCRYPHA. 

The Karamanian Exile 407 

The Wail and Warning of the Three 

Khalendeers 408 

The Time of the Barmecides 409 

The Mariner's Bride 410 

To the Ingleezee Khafir, calling himself 

Djaun Bool Djenkinzun 410 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Soul and Country 4H 

Siberia 413 

A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth 

Century 413 

An Invitation 413 

The Warning Voice 413 

The Lovely Land 415 

The Saw-Mill 415 

Cean-Salla 416 

Irish National Hymn 416 

Broken- Hearted Lays 417 

The One Mystery . . 418 

The Nameless One 419 

The Dying Enthusiast 419 

To Joseph Brenan 430 

Twenty Golden Years Ago 420 

RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxiii 

Ah ! Cruel Maid 433 

How oft, Louisa 433 

Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed 423 

Oh Yield, Fair Lids 433 

A Bumper of Good Liquor 433 

.We Two 433 

Could I her Faults Remember 433 

By Coelia's Arbor 433 

Let the Toast Pass 434 

O, the Days when I was Young 434 

Dry be that Tear 434 

What Bard, O Time, Discover 435 

Alas ! Thou hast no Wings, oh ! Time. . 435 

I ne'er could any Lustre see 435 

When Sable Night 435 

The Mid-watch 43 j 

Marked You her Cheek ? 435 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH i xv ii 

The Deserted Village .437 

The Traveller 433 

The Hermit 433 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



xxni 



The Double Transformation 441 

Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 442 

Epitaph on Edward Purdon 443 

Stanzas on Woman 443 

An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. 

Mary Blaize 443 

Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 443 

A Prologue, written and spoken by the 

Poet Laberius, a Roman Knight, whom 

Cassar forced upon the Stage .... 444 

Epilogue to the Comedy of " She Stoops 

to Conquer " 444 

Emma 444 

AUBREY DeVERE. 

3IOORAPHICAL SKETCH Ivii 

Song. Love laid down his golden Head. 445 

Creep slowly up the Willow Wand 445 

Spenser 445 

Holy Cross Abbey 446 

Self-Deception 446 

Onr King sat of old in Emania and Tara. 446 

The Malison 448 

Jynin, on the founding of the Abbey of 
St. Thomas the Martyr, ('A Becket) in 

Dublin, A. D., 1177 448 

is the Prince of the Silver Hand. . . 449 

The Faithful Norman 450 

3t. Patrick and the Bard 450 

Twas a Holy Time when the King's long 

Foemen 452 

Zing Laeghaire and St. Patrick 452 

The Bier that Conquered ; or, O'Donnell's 

Answer. A.D., 1257 '. 454 

Peccatum Peccavit 455 

The Dirge of Athunree. A. D., 1316 455 

Between Two Mountains 456 

Ode. The unvanquished Land. 456 

The Statue of Kilkenny. A. D. 1367 457 

The True King. A. D., 1399 457 

Queen Margaret's Feasting. A. D., 1451. 458 

Plorans Ploravit. A. D., 1583 459 

War Song of MacCarthy 459 

Florence MacCarthy's Farewell to his 

English Love 459 

War Song of Tirconnell's Bard at the Bat- 
tle of Black water. A. D., 1597 460 

The March to Kinsale. December, A. D., 

1601 463 

A. D., 1603 464 

Dirge of Eory O'More. A. D., 1642 464 

The Bishop of Boss. A. D., 1650 465 

Archbishop Plunket, A. D., 1681 4(ir) 

A Song of the Brigade 466 

A Ballad of Sarsfield ; or, the Bursting of 

the Guns. A. D., 1690 466 

Oh that the Pines which Crown Yon 
Steep 466 



The Last MacCarthy more 467 

Hymn for the Feast of St. Stephen 468 

Grattan 4H 

Adduxit in Tenebris 468 

The Cause 469 

Gray Harper, Rest ! 469 

Sonnet. Sarsfleld and Clare 469 

Song. A brighten'd Sorrow veils her 

Face 469 

St. Columkill's Farewell to the Isle of 

Arran, on setting sail for lona 470 

Sonnet. Christian Education 470 

Death 470 

The Graves of Tyrconnel and Tyrone on 

San Pietro, in Montorio 471 

Wayside Fountains 471 

THOMAS PARNELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cv 

The Hermit ." 472 

A Night-Piece on Death 475 

An Allegory on Man 476 

Hymn to Contentment 477 

THOMAS DAVIS. 

INTRODUCTION AND BIOGRAPHICAL 

SKETCH. (See page Iv.) 479 

PART I. NATIONAL BALLADS AND 
SONGS. 

The Men of Tipperary 483 

The Rivers 484 

Glengariff 484 

The West's Asleep 485 

Oh! Fora Steed 485 

Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers 486 

A Ballad of Freedom 486 

The Irish Hurrah 488 

A Song for the Irish Militia 488 

Our Own Again 489 

Celts and Saxons 489 

Orange and Green will Carry the Day. . . 490 

PART II. NATIONAL SONGS AND BAL- 
LADS. 

The Lost Path 491 

Love's Longings 492 

Hope Deferred : 492 

Eibhlin, a Ruin 4S2 

The Banks of the Lee 493 

The Girl of Dunbwy 493 

Duty and Love ( . . 494 

Annie, Dear 494 

Blind Mary 494 

The Bride of Mallow 495 

The Welcome 495 

The Mi-Na-Meala 496 

Maire Bhan a Stoir 497 

Oil ! The Marriage 497 

A Plea for Love 493 



XXIV 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



The Bishop's Daughter 498 

The Boatman of Kinsale 498 

Darling Nell 499 

Love Chant 499 

A Christmas Scene : . 499 

The Invocation 500 

Love and War 500 

My Land 500 

The Right Road 501 



PAIIT III. BALLADS AND SONGS IL- 
LUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. 

A Nation Once Again 

Lament for the Milesians 

The Fate of King Dathi 

Argan Mor 

The Victor's Burial 

The True Irish King 

The Geraldines 

O'Brien of Ara 

Emmeline Talbot 

O'Sullivan's Return 

The Fate of the O'Sullivans 

The Sack of Baltimore 

Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh 
O'Neill 

A Rally for Ireland 

The Battle of I imerick, August 27, 1690. 
PART IV. BALLADS AND SONGS IL- 
LUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. 

The Penal Days 

The Death of Sarsfield 

The Surprise of Cremona (1702) 

The Flower of Finae 

The Girl I.Left Behind Me 

Clare's Dragoons 

When South Winds Blow 

The Battle Eve of the Brigade 

Fontenoy (1745) 

The Dungannon Convention (1782) 

Song of the Volunteers of 1782 

The Men of 'Eighty-Two 

Native Swords 

Tone's Grave 

PART V. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Nationality 

Self Reliance 

Sweet and Sad 

The Burial 

We Must Not Fail 

O'Connell's Statue 

The Green Above the Red 

The Vow of Tipperary 

A Plea for the Bog-Trotters 

A Second Plea for the Bog-Trotters 

A Scene in the South 

William Tell and the Genius of Switzer- 
land. . 



501 
5C2 
503 
504 
504 
505 
506 
507 
508 
510 
511 
513 

514 
515 
516 



517 
518 
518 
519 
520 
520 
521 
522 
522 
524 
524 
525 
520 
526 

527 

527 
528 
529 
530 
530 
531 
532 
532 
533 
533'- 

534 



PAOB 

The Exile 535 

My Home 536 

Fanny Power 537 

Marie Nangle ; or, the Seven Sisters of 

Navan 537 

My Grave 538 

Appendix 539 

J. J. CALLANAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xliv 

The Recluse of Inchidony 551 

Accession of George the Fourth 560 

Restoration of the Spoils of Athens 563 

The Revenge of Donal Comm 564 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Gougane Barra 575 

To a Sprig of Mountain Heath 576 

Spanish War Song 576 

SONGS, LYRICAL PIECES, &c. 

" Si Je Te Perds, Je Suis Perdu "...:... 577 

How Keen the Pang 577 

Written to a Young Lady on entering a 

Convent 578 

Lines on a Deceased Clergyman 578 

Lines on the Death of an Amiable and 

Highly Talented Young Man, who fell 

a Victim to Fever in the West Indies. 578 

And must we Part 579 

Pure to the Dewy Gem 579 

T * * * * *_Lad y> the Lyre thou 

bid'st me take 579 

Stanzas. Hours like those I Spent with 

You 580 

The Night was Still 580 

Serenade. The Blue Waves are Sleeping 580 

Rousseau's Dream 581 

When each Bright Star is Clouded 581 

Hussa Tha Measg Na Real tan More 581 

SACRED SUBJECTS. 

The Virgin Mary's Bank 583 

Mary Magdalen i583 

Saul r,33 

The Mother of The Machubees 583 

Moonlight 584 

TRANSLATIONS FROM THE IRISH. 

Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear 5 35 

The Girl I Love 536 

The Convict of Clonmel 587 

The Outlaw of Loch Lene 587 

JACOBITE SONGS. 

O Say, My Brown Drimin 588 

The White Cockade 589 

The Avenger 589 



TABLE OP CONTENTS. 



XXV 



PAGE 

The Lament of O'Gnive 590 

On the Last Day 590 

A Lay of Mizen Head 591 

The Lament of Kirke White 592 

Lines, written to a Young- Lady, who, in 
the author's presence, had taxed the 
Irish with want of gallantry, proving 
her position by the fact of their not 
serenading, as the Italians, etc., do. . . 593 

Stanzas to Erin 593 

Lines to Miss O. D , 594 

Lines to Erin 594 

Wellington's Name 595 

The Exile's Farewell 595 

Song. Awake thee, my Bessy, the Morn- 
ing is Fair 595 

DelaVida del Cielo 596 

The Star of .Bethlehem 596 

Lilies to the Blessed Sacrament 596 

Though Dark Fate hath reft me 597 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxvii 

The Winding Banks of Erne 598 

The Abbot of Innisfallen 599 

Abbey Asaroe 601 

The Wondrous Well 602 

The Touchstone 602 

Among the Heather 602 

The Statuette 603 

The Ballad of Squire Curtis 603 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixiii 

LAYS OF THE WESTERN GAEL. 

The Tain-Quest 604 

The Abdication of Fergus MacRoy 612 

The Healing of Conall Carnach 614 

The Burial of King Cormac 618 

Aideen's Grave 620 

The Welshmen of Tirawley 623 

Owen Bawn 628 

Grace O'Maly 629 

BALLADS AND POEMS. 

The Fairy Thorn 631 

Willy Gilliland 632 

The Forging of the Anchor 634 

The Forester's Complaint : . . . 636 

The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan 637 

Hungary 637 

Adieu to Brittany 638 

Westminster Abbey 639 

VERSIONS AND ADAPTATIONS. 

The Origin of the Scythians 640 

The Death of Dermid 641 

The Invocation 643 

Archytas and the Mariner 643 



VERSIONS FROM THE IRISH. 

Deirdra's Farewell to Alba 645 

Deirdra's Lament for the Sons of Usnach 645 

The Downfall of the Gael 646 

O'Byrne's Bard to the Clans of Wicklow. 647 
Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of 

Timoleague 648 

To the Harper O'Connellan 649 

Grace Nugent 649 

Mild Mabel Kelly 649 

The Cup of O'Hara 650 

The Fair Hair'd Girl 650 

Pastheen Fin 650 

Molly Astore 651 

Cashel of Munster 651 

The Coolun 652 

Youghall Harbor 652 

Cean Dubh Deelish 653 

Boatman's Hymn 653 

The Dear Old Air. 653 

The Lapful of Nuts 653 

Mary's Waking 65d 

Hopeless Love 654 

The Fair Hills of Ireland 654 

Torna's Lament for Core and Niall. ..... 655 

Una Phelimy 656 

JOHN BANIM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxix 

Ailleen 658 

Soggarth Aroon 658 

The Fetch : 659 

The Irish Maiden's Song 659 

The Reconciliation 660 

CHABLES JAMES LEVER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxvii 

Bad Luck to this Marching 661 

It's Little for Glory I Care 661 

Larry M'Hale 662 

Mary Draper 662 

Now Can't You be Aisy ? 663 

Oh ! Once we were Illigant People 663 

Potteen, Good Luck to Ye, Dear 664 

The Bivouac 664 

The Girls of the West 665 

The Irish Dragoon. 665 

The Man for Gahvay 665 

The Pope he Leads a Happy Life 666 

The Pickets are Fast Retreating, Boys. . 666 
Widow Malone 667 

JOHN STERLING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxiii 

The Mariners 668 

The Dreamer on the Cliff 668 

The Dearest. . , .669 



XXVI 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Lament for Daedalus. 66 

The Husbandman 670 

Louis XV 670 

REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxxi 

Go ! Forget Me 672 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 672 

The Chains of Spain are Breaking 673 

Oh 1 Say not that my Heart is cold . ... 673 

Gone from her Cheek 673 

Oh, My Love has an Eye of the Softest 

Blue , 673 

If I had thought Thou Could'st Have 

Died 674 

JOHN ANSTER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxvii 

Dirge Song. Like the Oak of the Vale. 675 

The Harp 675 

The Everlasting Rose 676 

If I Might Choose 676 

Oh ! If, as Arabs Fancy 676 

WILLIAM CONGREVE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH i; 

A Cathedral 677 

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liv 

Oh ! Sleep 678 

The Deserter's Lamentation 678 

The Monks of the Order of St. Patrick, 
commonly called the Monks of the 

Screw 678 

The Green Spot that Blooms o'er the 
Desert of Life 680 

DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxvrii 

The Sack of Magdeburgh 681 

The Soldier-Boy 682 

The Beaten Beggarman 682 

CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH lxii 

The Irish Rapparees 685 

The Irish Chiefs 685 

Innishowen ggg 

The Muster of the North. (1641) 687 

The Voice of Labor 689 

The Patriot's Bride 690 

Sweet Sibyl ggg 

A Lay Sermon ggg 

O'Donnell and the Fair Fitzgerald 693 

WILLIAM CARLETON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH x l v 

Sir Turlough, or the Church Yard Bride. 695 
A Sigh for Knockmany ggg 



EDWARD WALSH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxvll 

A Munster Keen 699 

Battle of Credran. (1257) 700 

Margread Ni Chealleadh 701 

O'Donovan's Daughter ' 702 

Brighidin Ban Mo Store 703 

Mo Craoibhin Cno 703 

Aileen the Huntress 704 

ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Lxxi v 

Forget me not 707 

The Doves. 707 

What is this Love ? 707 

The Blacksmith of Limerick 708 

In Life's young Morning 709 

The Cannon 710 

The Mountain Ash 711 

Song. (From "Blanid") 711 

Song of the Sufferer 711 

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH c vii 

The V a s e 712 

Andromeda 712 

Netchaieff 713 

A Sailor's Yarn 713 

The Corporal's Letter 714 

The Way of the World. 715 

For the People 716 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Uxi 

Gloucester Harbor 717 

Private Theatricals 717 

Brother Bartholomew 718 

A Ballad of Metz 718 

The Rival Singers 719 

An Epitaph for Wendell Phillips 720 

The Caliph and the Beggar. 720 

KATHARINE TYNAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxvi 

Waiting 731 

Two Wayfarers 724 

An Answer 734 

Fra Angelico at Fiesole 725 

Eastertide 735 

Olivia and Dick Primrose 736 

The Lark's Waking 726 

Charles Lamb 737 

August or June 737 

Faint-hearted 737 

Thoreau at Walden 738 

A Sad Year. (1882) 738 

A Song of Summer 739 

A Bird's Song 739 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



sxvu 



ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY 

(WILLIAM EDGAR.) 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ciii 

Ode 730 

Song of a Fellow-worker 731 

A Parable of good Deeds 732 

A Fallen Hero 734 

Black Marble 735 

In the Old House 736 

REV. ABRAM J. RYAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cix 

The Conquered Banner 736 

'Sentinel Songs 737 

March of the Deathless Dead 738 

Song of the Mystic 738 

Lines. (1875) 739 

The Song of the Deathless Voice 740 

FANNY PARNELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ciii 

Ireland, Mother! 742 

She is not dead ! 743 

Ireland 743 

What shall we weep for? 744 

Michael Davitt 745 

To my Fellow-women 745 

John Dillon 747 

Buckshot Forster. 749 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY, 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ciii 

The Fame of the City 751 

HearWiunger 751 

Jacqueminots 752 

My Native Land 753 

Western Australia 758 

Waiting 753 

Living 754 

Her Refrain 754 

A Savage 755 

Love's Secret 755 

Love's Sacrifice 756 

At Fredericksburg. (Dec. 13, 1862) 756 

Released, Jan. 1878 758 

A Nation's Test 759 

LADY WILDE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .cxix 

The Brothers. A Scene from '98 762 

The Voice of the Poor 76S 

Budris and his Sons 76< 

Suleima to her Lover 76? 

A la Sombra de mis Cabellos 76( 

The Itinerant Singing Girl 761 

The Poet at Court 766 

KATHARINE E. CONWAY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH li 

Two Vines. . 76 



PAGE 

The first Red Leaf 767 

Remembered 767 

In Extremis 768 

The Heaviest Cross of all 768 

MARY E. BLAKE, 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xl 

Women of the Revolution 769 

How Ireland answered 771 

With a Four-leafed Clover 773 

The First Steps 773 

The Little Sailor Kiss 778 

Our Record 773 

A Dead Summer 774 

Sonnet 774 

Dead 775 

O'DONOVAN ROSSA. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cviii 

Jillen Andy '. 776 

My Prison Chamber is Iron lined 778 

A Visit from my Wife 77 

A Visit to my Husband in Prison. (May, 

1866) 780 

Edward Duffy 781 

In Millbank Prison, London. (1866). ... 783 
Smuainte Broin Thoughts of Sorrow. .. 783. 

HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlvi 

Vive Aleque 785 

Fryeburg 787 

A Vacation Prelude 789 

The Reed 791 

Theodosius 

Beyond the Snow 79ft 

The Syrens "96 

Sonnet 797 

A New England Winter Song 797 

Ode to General Porflrio Diaz 798 

FRANCES BROWNE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xli 

Losses 800 

Songs of Our Land 800 

JOHN SAVAGE, LL.D. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxi 

The Muster of the North 802 

Shane's Head 805 

Washington 80ft 

THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxv 

Death of the Homeward Bound 

The Ancient Race 8 

The Exile's Request 8 

The Sea-divided Gaels 810 

TheGobhan Saer 8 

The Death of Hudson 811 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



OF THE PUBLISHEES' SUPPLEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 



LADY DUFFERIN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH P b 

Lament of the Irish Emigrant 81 

Terence's Farewell 81 

BISHOP BERKELEY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxix 

On the Prospect of Planting Arts and 
Learning in America 81( 

JOHN FRAZER (J. De Jean). 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixiv 

The Poet and His Son 817 

The Holy Wells 817 

The Rejection 818 

ROBERT EMMET. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixiii 

Arbor Hill f 

R. A. MILLIKEN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xcii 

The Groves of Blarney 820 

HON. MRS. NORTON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xevi 

The Mother's Heart .821 

Love Not goo 

The Tryst ...... .Y.Y.Y.Y.Y" 823 

JOHN KEEGAN 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .i x xv 

Caoch O'Leary g<>3 

The " Holly and Ivy " Girl. . . ... ...... 824 

The Irish Reaper's Harvest Hymn 825 

LADY MORGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xciii 

Kate Kearney gos 



DR. CAMPION. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . . 

" Ninety-eight " 



MRS. K. I. O'DOHERTY (Eva). 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xcviii 

Shadows . 937 

The People's Chief 828 

ELLEN DOWNING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH l x i 

St. Agnes go,Q 

I Love You gog 

The Grave of Maccaura 829 

MICHAEL J. BALFE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxviii 

Killarney 339 

CHARLES J. KICKHAM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ixxvi 

Patrick Sheehan g3j 

The Irish Peasant Girl $32 

Rory of the Hills S32 

MRS. CRAWFORD. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liii 

Kathleen Mavourneen 833 

FATHER BURKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xliii 

The Irish Dominicans . 334 

JOHN F. O'DONNELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH c 

The Green Gift .835 

On the Rampart Limerick.. .836 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



XXIX 



JOHN K. CASEY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Donal Kenny 837 

The Rising of the Moon 837 

FRANCIS DAVIS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH lv 

Nanny 838 

On Again 

DENNY LANE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxvii 

Kate of Arraglen 



839 



839 



MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ............ xxxix 

The Sword ............................. 840 

Hymn of Freedom ...................... 841 

TheWexford Massacre Cromwell, 1649. 841 

JUDGE JOHN O'HAGAN. 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. c 

Ourselves Alone ........................ 843 

Paddies Evermore ... ................. 842 

Dear Land ............................. 843 

JOHN KELLS INGRAM. 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ............ Ixxiii 

The Memory of the Dead .............. 844 

Two Sonnets ........................... 844 

M. J. M'CANN. 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ........... Ixxxi 

O'Donnell Abu ........................ 845 

The Battle of Rathdrum ............... 846 

The Battle of Glendalough ............ 848 

Cashel .............................. 849 

JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ........... Ixxxiii 

Earthly Glory .......................... 852 

Life's Change ......................... 852 

Adam Lux ............................. 852 

OSCAR O. P. WILDE. 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. cxix 

Greflti D'ltalia ........................ 853 

Libertatis Sacra Fames ............... 853 

A Vision ............................. 854 

BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. lx 

The Brigade at Fontenoy, May 11, 1745. 854 

JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. cxii 

The O'Kavanagh ..................... 855 

The Invocation ........................ 856 

The Sword-Gift ........................ 856 

The Leper ............................. 857 



THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH "xc 

Prison Thoughts 857 

The Young Enthusiast 858 

W. P. MULCHINOCK. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xciv 

Music Everywhere 859 



The Rose of Tralee. 



860 



THEODORE O'HAHA. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ci 

The Bivouac of the Dead 860 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxviii 

My Life is like the Summer Rose 861 

RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxx 

Kathleen 862 

Ben Heder 862 

Adieu to Innisfail 863 

JOSEPH BRENAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xl 

To my Wife 864 

A Dirge for Devin Reilly 865 

Water Colors 867 

MICHAEL DOHENY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Iviii 

Cuisla Gal Ma Croidhe 869 

The Star of Glenconnel 869 

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xcvii 

A Fallen Star 870 

Kane. Arctic Explorer 872 

GEN. CHARLES G. H ALPINE 
(Miles O'Reilly.) 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxi 

Janette's Hair 873 

Honor the Brave. 874 

The Flaunting Lie 875 

On Raising a Monument to the Irish 

Legion 875 

Sambo's Right to be Kilt 877 

JOHN BROUGHAM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlii 

My Old Woman and 1 877 

The Hymn of Princes 878 

MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixii 

Like a Lilac 8 ? 8 

Perpetual Youth 



XXX 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



My Friend's Answer 879 

When Mothers Watch 879 

St. Patrick's Day 880 

THOMAS BUCHANAN BEAD. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cvi 

Sheridan's Ride 880 

The Brave at Home 881 

PATBICK SABSFIELD CASSIDY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlvii 

Burial of MacSwyneof the Battle Axes. 881 

To iny Irish Goldfinch 883 

A Kiss in the Morning 884 

Why I Celebrate the Day 884 

Pat's Marriage Certificate 885 

Fanny Parnell 887 

WM. GEOGHEGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixv 

The Groves of Bally mulvey 889 

The Bunch of May-Blossoms 890 

May 892 

Memory's Book 892 

Leaves that are Fairest 893 

The Days of Long Ago 893 

Winter 894 

DANIEL B. LYDDY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxix 

Christmas Hymn 894 

WILLIAM COLLINS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH li 

A Glen in the Galtees 895 

The Flag of Fontenoy 896 

Sunday Morning in Ireland 897 

The Mariner's Evening Hymn 898 

DANIEL CONNOLLY. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liii 

One Summer Night 899 

The Eyes of an Irish Girl 899 

BEV. JAMES KEEGAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Ixxv 

Song for Ulster 900 

Creigharee 900 

They Told Me to Sing a Song of Mirth. 901 

HON. W. E. BOBINSON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cvii 

The American Flag 901 

MBS. M. C. BUBKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlii 

Little Shoes 902 

The Beggar .902 



THOS. AMBROSE BUTLEB. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xtfv 

An Irish Mariner 90S 

BEV. JOHN COSTELLO. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liii 

Sonnet 905 

Erin 905 

My Motherland 905 

Human Life 906 

The Tomb of Alexander 90ft 

The Rose 906 

The Poppy Flower 907 

Two Sonnets 907 

MBS. M. F. SULLIVAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxiv 

The Irish Famine 1880 908 

A Paper Knife of Irish Oak 910 

ISABEL C. IBWIN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxiii 

On an Infant's Death . . 910 

T. C. IBWIN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH lixiv 

Minnie 911 

Song of All Hallows' Eve 911 

J. P. WALLEB, LL.D. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxvi 

A Spinning- Wheel Song 913. 

Dance Light, For My Heart, It Lies 
Under Your Feet, Love 913 

ALPBED PEBCIVAL GBAVES. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixix 

The Black '46 A Retrospect 914 

Children and Lovers 914 

Irish Spinning- Wheel Song 915 

EUGENE DAVIS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ivi 

Cross and Crown 915 

A Reverie 916 

T. D. SULLIVAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxiv 

O'Neil in Rome 917 

The Old Exile 918 

" God Save Ireland " 919 

DB. WILLIAM DBENNAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixi 

When Erin First Rose . . .920 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



XXXI 



HUGH FARRAR McDERMOTT. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxiv 

The Parting Hour 921 

A Hidden Sorrow 921 

Come O'er the Hill 922 

Heagher's Brigade 922 

Light and Shade 923 

EDWARD LYSAGHT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxx 

The Man Who Led the Van of Irish 

Volunteers 924 

Kate of Garnavilla 925 

LAWRENCE G. GOULDING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixviii 

My Native Land 925 

The Pen and Sword 926 

Robert Emmet 927 

Soggarth Aroon 927 

Ireland and America 928 

The Slanderer 929 

O Erin ! I Adore Thee 930 

St. Patrick's Day 930 

T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xcvii 

Moonlight Musings 931 

The River of Time 932 

Lament for the -Irish Fairies.. 933 

In Meuioriam : Gen. James Shields 934 

An Irish- American Land League Ballad. 936 

Faith, Hope and Love 937 

Our 'Prisoned Irish Chief 938 

The March of Science 939 

WILLIAM D. KELLY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxvi 

Fanny Parnell 940 

An April Fancy 940 

JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xlix 

Ouster's Last Charge 941 

At Liberty's Feet ... 942 

A Decade of Love 943 

Speculum Vitas 943 

Geraldine 944 

On the Sound 944 

MICHAEL J. WALSH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxvii 

In Meuioriam 945 

An Irish Song 945 

O'Connell's Birthday Anniversary Cele- 
bration 94( 

Musings Reminiscent 946 



GERALD CARLE.TON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . . . '. ......... P X?V 

Aspiration ............................ 947 

Thomas Moore ......................... 947 

MINNIE GILMORE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. Ixvi 

The River on the Plain ................ 948 

A Pioneer Poet ........................ 949 

A Sorghum Candy-Pull ................ 950 

After the Ball .......................... 952 

EDWARD J. O'REILLY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. cii 

The Emigrant's Love .................. 952 

Life .................... . ............... 953 

July the Fourth ....................... 953 

The Parting ............................ 953 

MICHAEL SCANLAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ............. cxii 

Presenting the Shamrock .............. 954 

The Manchester Martyrs ............... 955 

A Prison Love Song ................... 956 

The Spell of the Coulun ............... 957 

A Christmas Chant .................. 957 

The Fenian Men .................... 958 

Autumn Leaves ........................ 959 

Our Native Land ...................... 960 

The Spirit of Dreams .................. 961 

The Tribute of Song .................. 962 

Love Comes but Once unto the Heart . 962 
Adieu ................................. 962 

The Beautiful City of Derry ........... 963 

MICHAEL CAVANAGH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ............ xlviii 

Mysteries ............................... 965 

Leath Slighe'dir Eochail's Ceap-Ui- 
Chuinn .............................. 965 

A Caoine for A. O'M. Cavanagh ........ 966 

My Irish Blackthorn ................... 967 

KATHARINE MURPHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...... - ...... xcv: 

Sentenced to Death .................... 90S 



THOMAS J. M'GEOGHEGAN. 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ............ Ixxxvi 

The Hero of the Hour . . / 



970 



JOHN WALSH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ............. cxvii 

The Feast of Gilla More ................ 971 

The Bride-Side ......................... 973 

Westward Ho! ....................... 973 



XXX11 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



MABCELLA A. FITZGERALD. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixiv 

A Christmas Thought 974 

MBS. A. E. FOBD. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixiv 

A Hundred Years From Now 975 

The Captive 976 

God Pity the Poor 977 

The Green and Gold 977 

MBS. FELICIA HEMANS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxii 

The Rhine 978 

Washington's Statue 979 

The Better Land 979 

A Parting Song 979 

DANIEL CRILLY, M.P. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH liii 

" The End o' the Roads " 980 

The Hills of Mourne 981 

Thomas Davis 981 

JOHN J. McGINNIS. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixxxvii 

My First Love 982 

The Voice of Song 982 

Exiled Reflections 983 

Answering for Love 983 

RICHARD W. COLLENDER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 1 

ASong . 984 

To H. W. Collender 985 

An Elegy 986 

The Knight of the Blue Plume 986 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cvi 

McFeeters' Fourth 939 

An Old Sweetheart of Mine 990 

The Drum \\ 991 

Babyhood ggj 

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

The Maid of Erin 993 

The Death of the Lily .". '' 993 



MBS. JOHN LOCKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ........... Ix/vUi 

Echoes that Christmas Brings ......... 997 

Christmas Memories .................. 993. 

Cis- Atlantic Musing .................... 995 

Ellie .................................... 999 

A Patrick's Day Gift ................... 1000 

BICHABD MacHALE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .......... Ixxxvii 

A Lost Friend ......................... jooi 

To a Shamrock ......................... 1002: 

The Fallen ............................. JQ02 

I Long to Serve My Land .............. 1003 

The Manly Man ........................ 1003 

BEV. WM. J. McCLUBE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ........... Ixxxiii 

The Crushed Rose ..................... 1003 

The Summer Rain ..................... 1003. 

Moore's Centenary ..... . .............. 1004 

The Shamrock and Laurel ............. 1004 

St. Patrick's Cathedral ................. 1005 

Easter Lilies ........................... 1005 

JAMES MUBPHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ............ xcv 

The Advent of the Milesians .......... 1005 

The Expulsion of the Moors ............ 1008 

St. Patrick's Day by the Mississippi . . . 1009 
Our Cry 



PATBICK S. GILMOBE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. ] x v i 

Ireland to England ..................... ion 

REV. CHABLES P. MEEHAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. xc i 

Boyhood's Years ...................... 1013 



JOHN LOCKE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Jxxvii 

Morning on the Irish Coast .'.. . 993 

The Widow's Farewell to Her Son. .... 994 
A Thousand Leagues from Carlow 
Town on. 

_-...,. y yo 

Milking-Time 995 

Song of the Irish Mountaineer. ..... ! . ggg 



REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .............. c ix 

Our Midnight Mass .................... 1013 

The First Redbreast .................... 1014 

The Little Flower-Strewers .......... 1015 

ToT. D. Sullivan ...................... 1015 

LOUISIANA MUBPHY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ............. xcvi 

"What Would You Do For Ireland ?". 1016 
Song ................................... JQ16 

Chorus 

Song 

Ballad 



ROSA MULHOLLAND. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xciv 

Emmet's Love ioi8 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



XXXlll 



I 



The Builders 1020 

A Fledgling 1021 

Hope Deferred 1021 

A. M. SULLIVAN. 

IOGRAPHICAL SKETCH cxiii 

The Dying Boy 1021 

M. J. O'MAHONY. 

IOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ci 

A Welcome to a Friend 1022 

Washington 1023 



WILLIAM BOWLING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Ixi 

" Love's Longings 1024 



Lines 1024 

"Where is Little Mucco?" 1024 

MICHAEL DAVITT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Mi 

Innisfail 1025 

JAMES T. GALLAGHER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 1026 

Our Beloved Dead 1026 

Annie 1027 

True Love 1027 

Tell Me You Love Me 1027 

Grant and Death . . . . 1027 



JAMES MARTIN. 
The March of the Irish Race. . 



.1028 



PORTRAITS 



AND 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 



OF 



THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 



OF THE 



POETS OF IRELAND 



AND GIVING PAGE WHERE POEMS OF EACH CAN BE FOUND IN THIS VOLUME. 



WM. ALLINGHAM. 

WM. ALLINGHAM, poet and writer, born 1828 at Ballyshannon, County Done- 
gal, Ireland, to which picturesque locality he often refers in his lyrics. At a 
very early age he displayed marked literary taste. He served in the English 
Customs, meantime contributing to the Athenaeum, Household Words and 
other periodicals. The first volume of his poems was published in 1850, followed 
in 1854 by his "Day and Night Songs." In 1869 he brought out "Laurence 
Bloomfield in Ireland," its characteristic features of Irish life being a subject 
new to narrative poetry. Ketiring from the Customs in 1872 he in 1874 suc- 
ceeded James A. Froude as Editor of Frazer's Magazine. His marriage with 
Miss Helen Patterson, the artist, took place the same year. (Poems, page, 598.) 

JOHN ANSTER. 

JOHN ANSTER, LL.D., a distinguished poet and essayist, was born at Charle- 
ville, in the county of Cork in 1796. He entered Trinity college, Dublin, in the 
year 1810. Some of his earlier pieces were published before he took his degree. 
Subsequently to that period, he published a prize poem on the death of the 
Princess Charlotte, and in 1819 he published his " Poems, with translations from 
the German. " These were at once received into favor. The truth and vigor 
of the translated extracts from " Faust " were at once acknowledged, and it is 
said that the great German poet himself recognized their excellence. These 
extracts were reprinted in England and America, and their success encouraged 
Anster to undertake the laborious task of translating the entire poem, which 



IXXV111 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



he completed in 1835. The publication of this work established the reputation 
of Anster. It is a production of rare felicity and genius, and one of the few 
instances in which translation attains to the level of original composition. In 
1837, Dr. Anster published a small volume of poems under the title of " Xeniola, " 
which contains many pieces of merit. He also contributed largely to the lead- 
ing British periodicals, and was a constant writer in "The Dublin University 
Magazine," and the "North British Eeview." He was called to the Irish bar 
in 1824. During his later years he confined himself to the duties of his chair as 
regius professor of civil law in the University of Dublin. His literary services 
were recognized by a pension on the civil list, conferred upon him in 1841. 
(Poems, page 675.) 

MICHAEL JOSEPH BALFE. 

M. J. BALFE, one of the most distinguished of modern musicians and com- 
posers, was born in Dublin, May 15, 1808. In his eighth year he appeared in 
public in a concert at the Exchange, Dublin. At sixteen he removed to London 
and supported himself by performing in the orchestra at Drury Lane. In 1825, 




a Russian count, Mezzara, took him to Italy and educated him at his own ex- 

For many years he remained in Italy, where he produced many of his 

as, and won an European reputation. He wrote altogether about thirty 




JOHN BANIM. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND, xxxix 

The " Bohemian Girl" and " A Talisman " are his best. For many years 
he was conductor in Her Majesty's Theatre, London. He died Oct. 20, 1870. 
A tablet was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey a few years ago. 
(Poem, page 830.) 

JOHN BANIM. 

JOHN BANIM, a talented and popular novelist, was born in Kilkenny, April 
3, 1798. After a collegiate course, his artistic tastes urged him to adopt paint- 
ing as a profession. Studying faithfully and successfully for two years at the 
academy of the Eoyal Dublin Society, he returned to his native city as a portrait 
painter; he also edited the Leinster Gazette. In 1820, we find him again in 
Dublin engaged in literary pursuits, but discouraged and disheartened with the 
product of his labors, until the production of his tragedy of " Damon and 
Pythias." This play, which was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre, 
Macready and Charles Kemble supporting the principal characters, established 
his reputation. The first series of the popular " Tales by the O'Hara family " 
was published in 1825, the last in 1829. They are " The Peep o' Day," " The 
Smuggler," "The Disowned," " The Fetches, " and "The Nowlans." These 
tales were the joint production of John and Michael Banim, and although 
highly sensational are well and powerfully written. John Banim was a hope- 
less invalid from his thirty-first year, and the close of his life was overshadowed 
by much privation and misfortune. Death ended his suffering in 1842 in the 
forty-fourth year of his age. (Poems, page 358.) 



MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY. 

MICHAEL JOSEPH BARRY was a prominent member of the young Ireland party 
the disciples of Davis, the founders of the Irish Confederation. He was the 
author of the first prize Repeal Essay and a frequent contributor to the Nation, 
in prose and verse. After the failure of '48, he openly abandoned the national 
cause of Ireland as a cause lost and defeated forever, announcing this change 
boldly and explicitly, and advising his countrymen to make the best of British 
provincialism, disagreeable as it might be. He was for some years editor of the 
Cork Southern Reporter, and later on held a minor government position. 
He died February, 1889. He was a nephew of the renowned Bishop of Charles- 
ton, the late Dr. England. (Poems, page 840.) 



RIGHT REV. GEORGE BERKELEY. 

GEORGE BERKELEY, Bishop of Cloyne, was born at Dysart Castle, on the river 
Nore, March 12, 1683. He was educated in Trinity College, and in 1705 founded 
a society to "promote investigations in the new philosophy of Boyle, Newton. 



xl BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



and Locke." He published many works, the principal of which is " The Prin- 
ciples of Human Knowledge." He was the friend of Steele, Addison and Swift. 
He conceived the idea of emigrating to America and establishing a college for 
the advancement of its people. He procured a charter for a college; about 5000 
was subscribed, the government promised 20,000 more, and he threw all his 




private means into the undertaking. He landed at Newport, Rhode Island, in 
1729. The government grant not arriving, he returned home after three years, 
leaving his Rhode Island property to Yale College as an endowment. His house 
on Rhode Island still stands. He died in 1753. (Poem, page 816.) 



MRS. M. E. BLAKE. 

MRS. MARY E. BLAKE is one of Boston's sweetest poets. Her maiden-name 
was McGrath. She was born September, 1840, at Dungarvan, county Waterford, 
Ireland, and came to America when six years old. She married Dr. John G. 
Blake, of Boston, in 1865; and has resided since in Boston formerly in Quincy, 
Mass. Mrs. Blake is a poet of extensive range. She published a volume of 
"Poems" in 1882. (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Co.) (Poems, page 769.) 



JOSEPH BRENAN. 

JOSEPH BRENAN was one of the band of gifted young men who participated 
in the troubles of '48 in Ireland. After the failure of the movement, he was 
obliged to seek the shores of America. Here he devoted himself to the profes- 
sion of journalism and soon won a name by his poetic contributions to the jour- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



xli 



nals and magazines of the day. He died in New Orleans in 1857, in the twenty- 
ninth year of his age. He was totally blind the year before his death. Joseph 
Bronan married Miss Mary Savage, a sister of Mrs. Col. Murphy, of San Fran- 




cisco, and of the late John Savage. Four children were the issue of the mar- 
riage, only one of whom survives a daughter who was named after Florence 
McCarthy, a bosom friend of Brenan's. She is now Sister Mary Angela of the 
Convent of Mercy, Omaha. He was born in Cork, Ireland. His poems are dis- 
tinguished for their power, pathos, and exquisite diction. (Poems, page 864.) 



FRANCES BEOWNE. 

FRANCES BROWNE (The Blind Poetess) was born in the County Donegal, June 
16, 1818. Her loss of sight was owing to a severe attack of small pox during 

her infancy, which left this deplorable mark of its presence. Her early educa- 
tion was acquired through the attention with which she listened to the instruc- 
tions given her sisters and brother; her natural literary tastes requiring but 
little assistance to grow to perfect fruition. As early as her seventh year, her 
desire for verse-making made itself manifest. In 1844 her first volume of poems 
was published and received with much favor. "The Legends of Ulster," a 
volume of "Lyrics" and " Miscellaneous Poems " soon followed. Taking up 
her residence in London, her sister accompanied her, acting as her amanuensis. 
Here she became a contributor to the leading periodicals of the day. Her novels 
" The Hidden Sin " and the " Ericksons " acquired much popularity. In 1861 
she published " My Thoughts of the World." (Poems, page 800.) 



xlii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

JOHN BROUGHAM. 

JOHN BROUGHAM, dramatist, actor, and poet, was born in the city of Dublin 
in 1810. He came to the United States in 1842, and was connected with the 
stage until his death, which occurred in 1880. As a comedian he had few equals 




in his day. For a time he published in New York a comic paper, TJie Lantern, 
in which many of his fugitive pieces appeared. He was the author of many 
plays, poems and stories, of high literary merit. A volume of his select works 
has been published by Osgood & Co., Boston, Mass; (Poems, page 877.) 



MARY C. BURKE. 

MRS. BURKE was born in the city of Dublin, Ireland, and was brought by her 
parents to this country when about six years old. Her father, William H. Dunn, 
was a lawyer, and practised in Philadelphia, where he was well known as a man 
of superior education, a witty, brilliant writer and speaker, a high-minded, gen- 
erous gentleman. He removed with his family to New York where, in 1854. his 
eldest daughter, Mary Catharine, then 20 years of age married the late Dr. John 
Burke, one of New York's best known and most successful physicians Mrs 
Burke, encouraged by Dr. Huntington, Thomas D'Arcy McGee, and her father, 
had already written poems, which were published and praised, but an uncom- 
monly happy home, and the cares of a large family, interfered with a literary 
career which, under less fortunate circumstances, might have been more success- 
ful, as all that she has written has been most favorably received. Her poems 
are simple and natural, appealing from her own heart to others of the same 
mind. (Poems, page 902.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 



xliii 



VKRY REV. THOS. N. BURKE. 

VERY EEV. T. N. BURKE, one of the most distinguished pulpit orators and 
lecturers of the age, was born in the city of Gal way, Ireland, in 1830. In his 
sixteenth year he went to Rome, where he studied for five years and was then 
elevated to the priesthood. He became a member of the Order of Dominicans,, 
and labored as a missionary for many years in England and Ireland. He 
quickly distinguished himself by his zeal and energy and attracted public atten- 
tion by his eloquence as a speaker and his skill as a debater. He again went to 
to Rome, was made Superior of St. Clement's, and after a brief stay returned to 
Ireland and resumed his labors. While Provincial of his Order, in 1872, he 
visited the United States. Here he preached and lectured to vast audiences in 
all the principal cities of the Union. As indicated by his portrait, Father Burke 
had with a kindly disposition and a keen sense of humor an intensely combat- 
ive spirit. While on this tour the latter element of his character found full 
scope. The English historian Froude was on a mission to this country at the 







time, in order to win over the moral support of the American people for the 
English in their continued course of oppression of the Irish. Father Burke 
at once delivered a powerful lecture in New York in which he presented the 
Irish side of the case with remarkable power. This led to a vigorous contro- 
versy. In a debate wonderful for its eloquence and conclusiveness, Father 
Burke defeated the English representative, and sent him home baffled and crest- 
fallen. The lectures of the eloquent Father were printed in the leading daily 
papers of New York. No other priest from Ireland, not even Father Matthew, 
ever gained such wide popularity by means of his public utterances in the 
United States. His lectures were widely circulated in book form as well as in 
newspapers. They were first issued in two sumptuous volumes by P. M. Haverty. 
Another edition, in cheaper form, was soon put out by another publisher and 
had an extensive sale. Father Burke was the author of several volumes of ser- 
mons, lectures, and speeches. He died at Tallaght, in 1883. (Poem, page 834.) 



xliv 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



REV. T . A. BUTLER. 

REV. THOMAS AMBROSE BUTLER is a native of Ireland, where he was born in 
the year 1837. He is at present a resident of St. Louis, Mo. He published a 




few years ago a meritorious volume of verse, entitled " The Irish on the Prairies 
and Other Poems." (Poem, page 903.) 



J. J. CALLANAN 

J. J. CALLANAN was born in Cork in 1795, and was intended by his parents 
for the priesthood. After a preparatory classical course in his native city, he 
entered Maynooth College at seventeen. At twenty, he found that he had mis- 
taken his vocation, and he left the college. The next year he took two prizes 
in a poetical competition, and this decided his profession. He entered Trinity 
College to study medicine, and continued there for two years. He was full of 
literary projects; but they were not carried out. He was morbidly sensitive; and 
his unsettled aim and dependence increased his unrest. In 1827 he was a teacher 
in a school in Lisbon, Portugal, where his fatal illness came upon him. His 
moral qualities were of a very high order. Those who knew him well speak of 
him as scrupulously truthful, and honorable almost to romance. He was meek 
and charitable in speech to a degree not very common in those days. He never 
spoke ill of man; no injury could provoke him to it. -Ingratitude itself did 
not awaken in him a spirit of resentment. Add to these qualities a rare gentle- 
ness of manner, and it is no wonder that he was, as is told, very dear to all that 
had intercourse with him. (Poems, page 551.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



xlv 



DR. CAMPION. 

DR. CAMPION was born in Ireland in the early part of the present centuiy. 
He was a physician by profession, but was known as a devoted student of Irish 
historical literature, and he was a poet of more than ordinary merit. Many of 
his poems, notably those on historical subjects, display uncommon power. He 
was an ardent patriot. (Poems, page 826.) 




WILLIAM CAELETON. 

WM. CAELETON, novelist, was born at Clogher, county Tyrone, 1798. In- 
tended for the Church he, in his twelfth year, started on foot to attend a classi- 
cal school in Munster. On the way the kindness of the peasantry provided him 
with bed and board. Disheartened, he returned, but had gained such a knowl- 
edge of the manners and customs of the people that, though the Church, perhaps, 
lost a gifted ornament, literature secured the most successful descriptive writer 
of the peasant character of Ireland. In turn village tutor in Louth and classical 
teacher in Dublin, he later devoted himself to literature, producing his Traits 
and Stories of the Irish peasantry. He died in Dublin, 1869. (Poems, page 
695.) 

GEEALD CAELETON. 
GERALD CARLETON is a native of Galway, Ireland, where he was born in 



xlvi 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



the year 1844. At an early age he engaged in journalism, and was for many 
years connected with leading British publications. He is best known as a pop- 




ular novelist. He came to the United States in 1866, and, exceping eight years 
which he spent in Europe, has since resided in New York. (Poems, page 947.) 




HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



REV. HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER, the successor of Rev. Thomas Starr King, 

Pastor of Holhs St. Church, Boston, Mass., was born in Ireland in the 

He sprang from two old and honored famines in Kilkenny and 

Sis early training and taste for ancient and modern literature he de- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



xlvii 



rived from his father, a clergyman of the once Established Church of Ireland, 
and an excellent classical scholai. After five years' residence at Oxford, where 
he was prizeman, honorman, and exhibitioner of his college, he was appointed 
by Her Majesty's Commissioners of Education in Ireland as tutor and assistant- 
master in the upper department of Portora Eoyal Collegiate School, often called 
"the Eton of Ireland." As a lecturer on classic and historic themes, he has 
obtained celebrity in the New England states and in Canada, where he began 
his career about twelve years ago. Discharging all the duties of the religious 
society, to which he has ministered for nearly eight years, Eev. Bernard Car- 
penter devotes his hard-earned leisure to the poetic studies to which he is most 
ardently attached. (Poems, page 785.) 



JOHN K. CASEY. 

JOHN KEGAN CASEY, better known by his nom de plume, "Leo," was 
born in the county Westmeath, Ireland, in 1846. He soon made a name by his 
contributions to the national press, and he was arrested March 13, 1867, and 
confined in Roscommon jail. Being of a delicate constitution his health gave 
way under his harsh treatment, and he died suddenly of hemorrhage of the 
lungs shortly after his release from prison, 1870. He is the author of a volume 
of poems intensely national in spirit and of literary excellence. (Poems, page 837. ) 




P. S. CASSIDY. 

PATRICK SARSFIELD CASSIDY was born in the county of Donegal, Ireland, Oct. 
31, 1852. He came to the United States in his eighteenth year, and entered the 
field of journalism. While so engaged he managed to steal enough hours from 



xlviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

the night to enable him to write the thrilling tale, "Glenough: or Victims' of 
Vengeance," and several others. He was a member of the staff of the Associated 
Press, New York, for eight years. During part of that time, he also wrote the 
editorial pages for two weekly newspapers, and contributed an article and poem 
each month to the Celtic Magazine, of which he was part owner. 

Starting with nothing behind him but a thorough honesty, a soldier-like res- 
olution, and a tireless desire to make the most of his opportunities, and he stead- 
ily forged ahead in newspaper life. For several years past he has been city 
editor of the New York Mercury, and his facile genius and enormous capacity 
for work finds outlet as contributor and special writer upon several weekly and 
.monthly literary publications. He is a graceful and pleasing writer of verse, 
and several of his poems have achieved wide circulation and popularity. The 
warm impulsive heart of the man naturally gives itself expression through the 
medium of poetry. (Poems, page 881.) 

MICHAEL CAVANAGH. 

MICHAEL CAVANAGH was born in Cappoquin, county of Waterford, Ireland. 
His father was a cooper, and his mother the daughter of a farmer. She was 
instructed in the Irish language, and from her the son derived his first knowl- 
edge of his native tongue in print, as well as his love for the traditional lore with 
which her mind was well stored, and to which he added by the study and research 




of after-years. His connection with revolutionary movements in 1849 led to 

his self-expatriation from Ireland, and he came to America in the close of that 

for several years subsequently he worked at coopering, and it was not 

1868 that he commenced writing for a livelihood in the Emerald, a literary 

llustrated weekly published in New York. To this periodical he contributed 

several original Irish sketches and tales, some translations from Gaelic poetry 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



xlix 



er 

E 



which met the commendation of eminent Irish scholars), and an occasional 
Inglish song on some Irish subject. 

He subsequently became connected with the Celtic Monthly Magazine, and it 
as in this periodical that the greater portion of his published poems, original 
d translated, appeared ; though many of his best English poems were pub- 
shed in the Boston Pilot. The specimens given in this volume may be consid- 
ered fair samples of his English poetry, though but few of his literary friends 
it the same value on them as they accord to his prose sketches of Irish home 
ife, scenery, and character. The following lines are copied from the back of the 
ihotograph from which the above portrait of Mr. Cavanagh was engraved. 

MY EXCUSE. 

The graceless King before a "cat " 

His "tile" can sport Her "wig" the "Queen," 

And surely when it conies to that, 

A "decent man" may wear his "hat" 

By fellow-Christians to be seen : 

Nor care a single, bare " traneen " 

If, by some brainless swell's flat 

Because his name be " Mick," or " Pat," 

He should, therefore, be counted " Green ! " 

CLOCH-ON-CUINNE. (Poems, p. 965.) 



JOSEPH I. C. CLARKE. 

JOSEPH I. 0. CLARKE was born in Ireland at Kingstown, near Dublin, on July 
51, 1846. "With his family he crossed to London when a boy of twelve. In 1863 




he entered the English Civil Service in the Department of the Board of Trade, 
and remained there until 1868. The Irish National movement, which began in 



1 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

1SG1, found in him an ardent disciple, and this it was which led to his resigna- 
tion from the Civil Service. He went to Paris from London and thence to 
America. In New York he entered the ranks of journalism, first associating 
himself with the Irish Republic, a weekly paper brilliantly edited by Michael 
Scanlan, the poet. In 1870 he entered the service of the New York Herald and 
remained with that paper thirteen years, filling almost every position on it from 
reporter to managing editor. In 1883 he left the Herald to take the managing 
editorship of the New York Morning Journal which position he still fills. 
Although in the centre of the maelstrom of journalism Mr. Clarke has found 
time for poetic and literary effort. Last year he published "Robert Emmet, 
a Tragedy of Irish History." and stray verses from his pen appear from time 
to time in the press. He is always proud to say that his first verses that found 
their way into print appeared in the Dublin Irish People, edited by John 
O'Leary. (Poems, page 941.) 



RICHAED W. COLLENDER. 

RICHARD W. COLLENDER was born in Cappoquin, county of Waterford, Ire- 
land, in the year 1841. He was educated in the famous school of Mount Mel- 
lerey, where, though a mere youth, he attracted notice by his talent and love of 
knowledge. He came to the United States in 1869, and wrote for the Celtic 
Monthly Magazine and other publications. Though splendid inducements were 
before him, his love of home prevailed, and he left, in 1883, for Ireland. Mr. 




Collencler is an ardent Nationalist, and his vigorous poems have been among the 
most attractive features of United Ireland for some years past. He has also writ- 
ten many sketches, stories and novelettes, but his complete works have never 
been collected. His brother, Mr. Hugh M. Collender, is a wealthy merchant of 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



li 



York. Mr. Collender was a school- mate and life-long friend of the Cappo- 
quin poet, John Walsh, and much of their best work was the result of collab- 
oration. (Poems, page 984.) 

WILLIAM COLLINS. 

WILLIAM COLLINS was born in the town of Strabane, County of Tyrone, Ire 
land, and came to America in his fourteenth year. He resided for many years 
in the neighborhood of the Upper Ottawa, Canada, and while yet a boy contrib- 
uted largely to the periodicals of the day. Having passed over to the United 
States, during the early period of the war, he enlisted in a Western regiment 




and served till the close of the conflict. In 1866, he accompanied Gen. O'Neill 
in the Fenian invasion of Canada, and participated in the battle of Ridgeway, 
and the rout of the "Queens' Own." He has resided in New York for many 
years and is at present on the editorial staff of the New York Tablet. Mr. Col- 
lins has published a volume of poems that has had an extensive sale, besides 
several prose works of fiction. He is a contributor to many of the periodicals 
of the day. (Poems, page 895.) 



WILLIAM CONGEEVE. 

WILLIAM CONGREVE, an eminent dramatist, was born of Dublin parents, at 
Bardsey Grange, near Leeds, in 1670. Returning to Dublin he received his early 
education at Kilkenny and afterward at Trinity College, Dublin. While study- 
ing law at the Middle Temple, his love for literature asserted itself, and setting 
aside his legal studies he applied himself to writing for the stage. The novel 
Incognita was published under the fictitious name of " Cleophil." His comedy 



Ill 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



the " Old Bachelor " was received with great favor at the Drury Lane Theatre 
in 1693. He subsequently produced " Love for Love," " Double Dealer," " The 
Mourning Bride," and " The Way of the World." 

" Love for Love " is Congreve's masterpiece. The general tone 6f his writ- 
ings savors much of immorality, and their popularity indicates the spirit of the 
times. He was ruined by the adulation heaped upon him by the most distin- 
guished men of his time. Pope honored him by dedicating to him his I7/'ad. 
Dryden was extravagance itself in his praise. After years of suffering from 
blindness and bodily weakness he died January 19, 1729. (Poems, page 677.) 




KATHAELNE E. CONWAY. 

Miss KATHARINE E. CONWAY was born of Irish Catholic parents at Eoches- 

ter, New York, September, 1853. Her first literary work was contributed to the 

daily press of that city. She has since written much in prose and poetry for 

Few York and other periodicals, and in 1883 produced a volume of poems en- 

3n the Sunrise Slope." She was for some years a member of the edi- 

anal staff of the Buffalo Catholic Union and Times, and is now connected with 

the Boston Pilot. (Poems, page 767.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Mil 



DANIEL CONNOLLY. 

DANIEL CONNOLLY was born in Beleek, Fermanagh County, Ireland, in 
year 1836. He came to America in 1851, and adopted the profession of 
journalism. He was for some time the special war correspondent of the New 
York Daily Neivs, during the Rebellion, and he became subsequently asso- 
ciate editor of the Metropolitan Record, a New York weekly. He is at present 
engaged in commercial business His poetical contributions to the periodicals of 
the day are numerous, and are distinguished for their vigor of expression and 
strong patriotic feeling He has recently compiled an excellent collection of 
Irish poetry. (Poems, page 899.) 



EEV. JOHN COSTELLO. 

REV. JOHN COSTELLO is at present parish priest at Athens, Pa. He has been 
ar many years a well-known contributor to Irish and Catholic publications. He 




is an accomplished linguist, and has translated into English many of the gems 
of poetic literature from the various European languages. Some of his transla- 
tions are equal to those of Mangan and " Prout." (Poems, page 905.) 



MRS. CRAWFORD. 



MRS. CRAWFORD was born in the county of Cavan, Ireland, early in the pres- 
ent century. She wrote several pieces of merit, and is said, on good authority, 
to be the author of " Kathleen Mavourneen," for which Crouch furnished the 
music. (Poems, page 833.) 



I 



DANIEL CRILLY. 

DANIEL CRILLY, poet, journalist, and politician, was born near Rostrevor, in 
he county of Down, Ireland, thirty-five years ago. He received his early edu- 



liv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

cation in the National school of his native place, and afterward spent some 
time in the Catholic Institute, Hope Street, Liverpool whither his family 
removed and Sedgley Park College, Wolverhampton, England. After five 
years passed in the Cotton Exchange of Liverpool, his desire to enter political 




journalism proved irresistible. He became a contnbutor to the Dublin Nation, 
and eventually a member of its staff. In 1885, Mr. Crilly was elected a Member 
of Parliament for North Mayo. Besides his political articles and journalistic 
correspondence, and burdensome parliamentary duties, Mr. Crilly finds time to 
write -many tales and sketches, and stirring songs and lyrics. He is one of Mr. 
Parnell's ablest lieutenants, and is one of the most trusted advisers in the Irish 
Parliamentary Councils. (Poems, page 980.) 



JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN, a brilliant popular orator, was born at Newmarket, 
county Cork, July, 1750. His ready wit attracted the attention of the Rector, 
Rev. Wm. Boyse, who sent him to Middleton College, whence he was trans- 
planted to Trinity College, Dublin, in 1767. He studied Law at the Middle 
Temple and on his call to -the Bar returned to Ireland in 1775. From 1783 to 
1797 in the Irish Parliament he advocated emancipation and reform. There 
he was the " assistant most demanded," whilst in court " he was the advocate 
deemed essential." His defence of Hamilton Rowan stands unequalled. He 
resigned the Mastership of the Rolls in 1816, and died in London from an 
apoplectic attack, October, 1817, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. (Poems, 
page 678.) 




JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 



Iv 




THOMAS DAVIS. 
See memoirs and introduction by John Mitchel, preceding Poems, page 479. 




FRANCIS DAVIS. 

FRANCIS DAVIS, more widely known in his day by his nom deplume of " The 
Belfast. Man," was a native of Cork, Ireland, where he was born in 1810. He 



Ivi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 

removed to Belfast at an early age. where he lived till his death, supporting 
himself for many years by his occupation of weaver. He wrote for the Dublin 
Nation in its early years, and contributed to most of the national journals. 
Many of his finest productions were composed while busy with the loom. In 
his latter years he received from his townsmen a situation more congenial to his 
tastes. Shortly before his death he joined the Catholic church. His complete 
poetical works were published in Belfast a few years ago. He died in 1885. 
(Poems, page 838.) 



EUGENE DAVIS. 

EUGENE DAVIS was born in Clonakilty, county of Cork, Ireland, March 23 
1857. He was educated at the University of Louvain, Belgium, and subse- 
quently in Paris. He was a contributor at an early age to the Dublin Irishman 
and Shamrock over the nom de plume of " Owen Roe," the series of articles 




being, -Hours with Irish Poets," "The Orators of Ireland," and a novel of 

Belgo-Irish life entitled " The True Love and the False. " He contributed poetiy 

to the same papers. Mr. Davis spent a large portion of his life in Paris 

where at one time he was the acting editor of United Ireland, when that journal 

transferred to the French capital after having been suppressed in Dublin 

> was expelled from France, with James Stephens, in March, 1885, at the 

request of Lord Lyons, the British Ambassador, for political reasons. He trav- 

ed afterward over almost the entire continent of Europe, and contributed 

articles, under the name of "Viator," on social life in Switzerland and Italy to 

>unday edition of the San Francisco Chronicle. In November, 1887. he 

Ireland, and was appointed to a post on the editorial staff of the 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ivii 



ublin Nation. Mr. Davis is the author of a series of articles entitled " Sou- 
nirs of Irish Footprints over Europe," which appeared in the Dublin Evening 

\'lc</raph in the spring of 1889, and will soon be published in book form. A 

olume of his poems, entitled "A Vision of Ireland, and other Poems," has 
:ently been published, and he has edited the posthumous poems of the late 

. K. Casey. (Poems, page 915.) 



MICHAEL DAVITT. 



MICHAEL DAVITT was born near the village of Straid, County of Mayo, Ire- 
land, in 1846. He was the son of a farmer, who was evicted from his home 
during the terrible landlord clearances of that period. When four years of age, 
Michael went with his parents to England, and when still little more than a 
child had the misfortune to lose his arm, while engaged in working in a mill. 

1870, he was arrested in London and sentenced to fifteen years' penal servi- 





'" 



tude, for participation in the Fenian movement. He was released in 1877. Mr. 
Davitt founded the Land League at Irishtown, Mayo, April 20, 1879. He was 
afterward arrested and imprisoned in connection with the agitation. His sub- 
sequent career is identified with the history of the Land League and the National 
League. Mr. Davitt has published a record of his prison life, and is the author 
of numerous speeches and writings on contemporary Irish affairs. (Poem, page 
025.) 



AUBREY DE VERE. 

THOS. AUBREY DE VERB, poet and political writer ; born in county Limerick 
in 1814. Educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Devoting his leisure to travel 



Iviii 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



and literature, almost every year since 1842 beheld some production of his pro- 
lific pen. Amongst his poetic works, are " Recollections of Greece," and 1843, 




" Poems Miscellaneous and Sacred ;" 1856, " Innisfail ;'"1861, " Alexander the 
Great ;" a dramatic poem, 1874. His prose works include " Church Settlement 
of Ireland," 1886, and in 1878 Correspondence Eeligious and Philosophical, 
entitled " Proteus and Amadeus. " (Poems, p. 445.) 



MICHAEL DOHENY. 

MICHAEL DOHEXY, orator, poet and patriot, was born at Brookhill, Tipperary, 
Ireland, May 22, 1805. The son of a small farmer, the first twenty years of his 
life were passed on the farm. He devoted all his spare time to study, and when 
a young man entered the Temple in London as a law student, meantime sup- 
porting himself by the proceeds of his pen. After being admitted to the bar, he 
returned to Ireland and took up his residence in the town of Cashel, Tipperary. 
He was one of O'Connell's ablest lieutenants in the then great struggle going on 
for popular rights. He afterward joined the young Ireland organization and de- 
voted all his talents and energies to the revolutionary movement. After many 
vicissitudes he succeeded in making his escape, arriving in New York in 1849. 
There he resumed his profession, and became an active and untiring worker for 
the diffusion of Irish principles. His death occurred suddenly April 1, 1863. He 
is the author of " The Felon's Track," descriptive of the abortive insurrection of 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



lix 




'48. His poetic contributions to the periodicals of the day were numerous. 
(Poems, page 869.) 




5 

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY is a resident of the city of Philadelphia, where she 
was born in the year 1848. She has been for many years one of the most popu- 



1 X BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

lar contributors to American Catholic periodicals. Many of her poems are on 
spiritual subjects, and she is the author of a number of prose works, most of 
them being of a religious character. Miss Donnelly is a sister of the Hon. Igna- 
tius Donnelly of Minnesota, author of "Atlantis," and the Shakespeare Bacon 
Cryptogram. (Poems, page 992.) 



BARTHOLOMEW DOWLIXG. 

BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING was born in Listowel, county Kerry, Ireland, in 
1817. His parents emigrated to Canada, but on the death of his father, while 
yet a mere child, his mother returned with him and her other children to her 
old home in Limerick, where he was educated and commenced a successful 
business career. In everything relating to Ireland he was an ardent enthusiast, 
and when the young Ireland movement culminated in disaster for the leaders 
in 1848, his personal interests were for the time shipwrecked with those of many 
of his brave companions. Later on, he resumed business in Liverpool, and from 




thence emigrated a second time to America, stimulated by the grand exodus of 
the Modern Argonauts to the golden shores of California. 

Here his career was varied and honorable. He successfully edited the San 
Francisco Monitor for some years, and in conjunction with his younger brother 
conducted a large farming business in Contra Costa County. 

In a brief notice like the present we have room to do him little more than 
passing justice by referring to the specimen poem from his pen which is to be 
found in this volume, and saying that when in 1863, at the early age of 46, death 
summoned him to judgment, the close of his blameless and honorable life was 
cheered by the love of a host of warm personal friends. (Poem, page 854.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ixi 



WILLIAM DOWLING. 

WILLIAM DOWLING was born of Irish parents in Kingston, Upper Canada. 
"While very young his father died, and the mother returned with her family to 
her old home in Limerick, Ireland. Here, under his mother's care and that of his 
elder brother Batholomew (whose biography appears in these pages) he received 
his education and imbibed a taste and love for all that was beautiful and true. 
On the death of his mother and the breaking up of the old home he emigrated 
to America, finally settling down in San Francisco, where he at present resides, 
surrounded by a large and happy family. Mr. Dowling has written pretty gems, 
which occasionally may be found in the newspapers without credit. But they 
have never been published as a collection. (Poems, page 1024.) 



ELLEN DOWNING. 

Miss ELLEN DOWNING was a Munster lady, and one of the most brilliant con- 
tributors to the Nation newspaper, during the '48 period. She had formed an 
attachment for one of the young Ireland writers, who was forced, on the failure 
of the movement, to seek refuge in America. In the new land he learned to 
forget his home vows. " Mary" sank under the blow, and in utter seclusion 
from the world lingered for a while, but ere long the spring, flowers bloomed on 
her grave. She died a nun in one of the Convents of Cork. (Poems, page 829.) 



WILLIAM DRENNAN. 

DR. DRENNAN, a United Irishman, was born in Belfast, May 23, 1754. He 
was the son of Thomas Drennan, a Presbyterian minister. He took his degree 
of M.D. at Edinburgh in 1778, and after practising some years in Belfast and 
Newry, removed to Dublin in 1789. He originated the establishment of the 
Society of United Irishmen, and published a prospectus in June, 1791. He 
vigorously advocated the cause of Catholic Emancipation and Parliamentary 
Reform. In 1794, he was tried for sedition and acquitted. Relinquishing his 
practise in 1800, he returned to Belfast and commenced the Belfast Magazine. 
In 1815, he published a volume of " Fugitive Pieces," and in 1817 a translation of 
the " Electra" of Sophocles. He died in Belfast June 5, 1820. He first applied to 
Ireland the epithet: " Emerald Isle. " He published some excellent hymns, and, 
says Dr. Drummond, "in some of the lighter kinds of poetiy showed much of 
the playful wit and ingenuity of Goldsmith." (Poem, page 920.) 



LADY DUFFERIN. 

LADY DUFFERIN was the daughter of Thomas Sheridan, son of Richard 
Brinsley Sheridan, and was born in the year 1807. She married the Hon. Price 



Ixii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

Blaekwood, afterward Lord Dufferin. After his death, she married the Earl of 
Gifford, when on his death bed. She was the mother of the present Earl of 
Dufferin. She was the author of some touching Irish ballads. She died in 
1867. (Poems, page 815.) 



CHAKLES GAVAN DUFFY. 

CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY, the son of a Monaghan farmer, of Celtic extrac- 
tion, was born in 1816. In his 10th year he went to Dublin, friendless and un- 
known; but determining on becoming an author, he obtained employment on 
the newspaper press. He next became the editor of an influential newspaper 
in Belfast. He returned to Dublin in 1841, and connected himself with " The 
Mountain " of the O'Connell party. In 1842 he started " The Nation," as an 
educational journal, to create and foster public opinion in Ireland, and to make 
it racy of the soil. In five years Mr. Duffy collected a party, af terward known 
as " Young Ireland. " In 1844 he was a fellow-prisoner with O'Connell in Rich- 
mond jail, Dublin; he acted in concert with O'Connell until 1847, when he left 
the Repeal Association, and was one of the founders of the Irish Confederation. 
He was tried for treason and felony in 1848-9, but after several ineffectual 
attempts, the prosecution was abandoned by the Government. He then re- 
sumed "The Nation," which had been suspended, which he limited to social 
reforms, such as landlord and tenant right, in support of which was formed the 
" Independent Irish Party " in Parliament. Mr. Duffy was elected in 1852 
member for the borough of New Ross, but resigned his seat in 1856, on proceed- 
ing to Australia. He has since held office twice in the government of Victoria 
as Minister of Public Lands and Works, and was sent for by the governor to 
form an administration during a severe ministerial crisis of 1860, but declined 
on his excellency's hesitating to grant the power of dissolving Parliament. Mr. 
Duffy, on his arrival in Victoria, was presented with a handsome estate by the 
Irish of that colony. Mr. Duffy has been thrice married. He is a barrister, 
but has never practised. (Poems, page 685.") 



MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 

MAURICE F. EGAN was born in the city of Philadelphia in 1852. He was edu- 
cated in La Salle College, and after completing his studies, he entered George- 
town College as one of the lay members of the Faculty. Shortly afterward Mr. 
Egan made a business of journalism, contributing meantime to most of the 
leading periodicals of the day. His poetical contributions to the Century Maga- 
zine were received with a general burst of welcome and pleasure from critics of 
eminence, among them being Longfellow and Steadman. Shortly before his 
death, Mr. Longfellow referring to Mr. Egan's "Preludes" wrote: "I have 




CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 




ROBERT EMMET. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ixiii 



already read enough in it to see the elevated tone and spirit in which it is 
written; I recognize in these sonnets a certain freshness in the thought and 
manner of expression which is very attractive. Might I ask you to congratulate 
the author for me, both on the promise and the performance of his work." Mr. 




Egan edited for some years McGee's Illustrated Weekly, and the New York Free- 
man's Journal. He is at present professor of English literature in Notre Dame 
University, Indiana. Mr. Egan is the author of two volumes of poems, one of 
which was published in London, and of a volume of excellent Catholic stories 
entitled " The World Around Us. " (Poems, page 878.) 



EGBERT EMMET. 

ROBERT EMMET, the Irish martyr, was born in Dublin, in 1778. He was 
educated at Trinity College, where he took a prominent part in the Historical 
Society and espoused the national side in the debates. Among his fellow-stu- 
dents was the poet Moore. Emmet's subsequent career, and his execution in 
1803, are too well known to require an extended notice. He was the author of 
several pieces of poetry, which are published in his memoir by Dr. Madden. 
(Poem, page 819.) 



SAMUEL FERGUSON. 

SAMUEL FERGUSON, poet and writer of historical romance, was born in Belfast, 
Ireland, in 1815. He was educated at the Belfast Academical Institute, also at 
the University of Dublin, which gave him the degree of LLD., in 1865. He 



Lxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. , 

1 

was admitted to the Irish bar in 1838. Ferguson (the original of which is 
McFergus) is a descendant from an ancient Celtic family; which ancestry is 
accountable for the wonderful power and energy, combined with the sweetness 
and descriptive beauty, which are the leading characteristics of his writings. 

During his earlier years, the practice of law becoming distasteful, his youth- 
ful imagination found mom enjoyment in gratifying his natural love of litera- 
ture. He became a contributor to the Dublin University Magazine, in whose 
pages first appeared his fine romances of Irish History, ' ' The Rebellion of 
Silken Thomas " and "Corbie McGilmore." His genius as ballad -writer alone 
is sufficient to build his poetic reputation. " The Forging of the Anchor " has 
of its own excellence become famous, and " The Welshmen of Tirawley " shows 
in every line the powerful poetic genius of the author. Samuel Ferguson's 
" Lays of the Western Gael " breathe the genuine spirit of the Irish bards. As 
a translator of Irish ballads he is unrivalled. The latter years of Ferguson's 
life have been devoted almost entirely to his profession, working faithfully and 
earnestly. He acquired a high and honorable position at the Irish bar, and has 
been honored if social title be an honor for a poet with a baronetcy. He died 
in August, 1886. (Poems, page 604^ 

MARCELLA A. FITZGERALD. . 

MARCELLA A. FITZGERALD was born in Frampton, Canada. Feb. 23d, 1845, a 
village established by her grandparents, who emigrated with their children from 
the county of Wexford, Ireland, in 1820. After her father's death her mother 
in 1851, went to California with her children to join her father, Martin Murphy 
the well-known Irish pioneer, who had traversed the continent, and in 1844 
pitched his tent on the Pacific. Miss Fitzgerald has resided in California 
since childhood, receiving her education at the college of Notre Dame, San Jos6. 
She has been a regular and a highly valued contributor to the press since 1865. 
A volume embracing many of her poems was published in 1886, by the Catholic 
Publication Society of New York. (Poem, page 974.) 

JOHN FRAZER. 

JOHN FRAZER was born near Birr, Kings County, Ireland, in 1809, and was a 
cabinet maker by trade. He possessed literary and poetic talents of a high 
order. He wrote under the assumed name of " J. De Jean." Died, 1849. A col- 
lection of his writings was published in Dublin after his death. (Poems, p. 817.) 

UNA (MRS. A. E. FORD). 

MRS. AUGUSTINE FORD, better known under her nom de plume of " Una ' 

was born in the county of Antrim, Ireland, and came to the United States at an 

early age. She completed her education at St. Martin's convent, Brown County 

3hio ; and while yet a mere girl won wide recognition by her poetic contributions 

e penodjcals of the day. Her writings are intensely national, and those on 

imental subjects are characterized by a delicate play of fancy and beauty of 




SAMUEL FERGUSON. 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 



Ixv 




diction. Died, 1876. She was author of two volumes of poems, (Poems, p. 975.) 

JAMES T. GALLAGHER. 
A biographical sketch of Mr. Gallagher precedes his poems, page 1026. 




WILLIAM GEOGHEGAN. 
WILLIAM GEOGHEGAN, poet and journalist, was born in the town of Bally- 



Ixvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

mahon, County Longford, Ireland, in the year 1844. His birth place is close by 
the classic shades of "Sweet Auburn," which Oliver Goldsmith's gentle muse 
has rendered forever famous. He left Ireland at the early age of seventeen 
years, and making New York his future home adopted the profession of journal- 
ism. He rose to an honored place in its ranks. Impressions of the hallowed 
surroundings of his youth can be readily traced in many of his contributions to 
the American Journals and magazines, both in poetry and prose. He has been 
for over twenty years, and still is a contributor of serial stories, poems and other 
light literature to the leading periodicals of the day, and is at present a member 
of the staff of the New York Evening Sun. He revisited Ireland on two occa- 
sions since his first arrival in the United States, and drew vivid pen pictures of 
the scenic and social aspects of Ireland that have been widely read and appre- 
ciated for their gracefulness and simplicity of style. (Poems, page 889.) 



PATEICK SARSFIELD GILMORE. 

PATRICK SARSFIELD GILMORE was born in the county of Galway, Ireland, on 
Christmas Day, 1829. He came to the United States when nineteen years old, 
landing in Boston. His talents as a musical leader and organizer were soon recog- 
nized. He was installed as leader of the Boston Brigade Band. Later he organ- 
ized the Suffolk Band of Boston and the famous Salem Brass Band. His own 
band Gilmore's Band he organized in 1858. The musical jubilees in Boston 
in 1869 and 1870, particularly the latter, are red letter events in musical history. 
In 1878 he made a tour of Europe, taking his band with him and staying away 
from us for six months. He was sadly missed, but America was content to do 
without him for a while, that Europe might know that we could give her a few 
valuable hints about music. His two Boston jubilees together cost $1,000 000 
and at the conclusion of the second one Mr. Gilmore was given $80 000 by the 
wealthy men of Boston. Ten years ago Mr. Gilmore published his national anthem 
Columbia, which has steadily increased in popularity as it has advanced 
n age. Mr. Gilmore resides at present in New York. (Poem, page 1011.) 



MINNIE GILMORE. 

Miss MINNIE GILMORE is the daughter of Mr. Patrick Sarsfleld Gilmore the 
famous musician, and is about twenty-two years of age. She is the author of a 
volume of poems that has been well received, and that gives bright promise of 
m 8Wne lma TheSe P emS have been *n ^ she left a 
" AB St0n girl by birth '" she ^d to the 






aoh fl ' 

f. 0t amite ^ ad P t10 "' * cosmopolitan by virtue of our Bohemian, 
life it may seem strange that my first work should be distinct 
western. The verses are simply the records of rose-colored impressions received 
during my first peep at life, when from the seclusion of a convent schooTl was 
transferred, for a year, to the wild, free life of the prairie. The count" which 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ixvii 



have loved 'from my youth up, '--the primitive social atmosphere here, and 
above all, the life on horseback which I led, took my heart by storm, and I have 




been restive under civilization ever since. Literary habits ? Oh, none; beyond 
the inveterate habit of scribbling, I fear I have none." Miss Gilmore resides 
in New York City. (Poems, page 948.) 









OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH was born at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland, 
November 10, 1728. His father was a poor curate of the Established Church. 
As a child, Oliver was remarkably dull, and was pronounced by his teacher an 
incorrigible dunce. Entering Trinity College (as a sizar) in his seventeenth 
year, he was noted for his inattention to his studies, and took his degree in 1749 
as last on the list of graduates. After leaving the University he made futile 
efforts to enter the church, also to secure a livelihood in the professions of 
teaching, law and medicine. Disgusted and disappointed he travelled on foot 
over a considerable portion of the continent, paying for his food and lodgings 
by playing the flute. Arriving in England penniless, in 1756, he varied his 
occupation, as chemist's clerk, usher in a school, book-seller's apprentice, and 
medical practitioner. After a period of obscure drudgery, devoted to writing 
tales for children, articles for magazines and critical reviews., he became con- 



Ixviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

tributor to the Public Ledger. Under the title " Letters from a Citizen of the 
World," these publications attracted popular notice. His beautiful poem " The 
Traveller," the plan of which was sketched from his journeyings through 
Europe, was the beginning of his literary fame. "The Vicar of Wakefield," 
" The Good-natured Man," " The Deserted Village " following in quick succes- 
sion, he was acknowledged one of the leading writers of his time. In 1773 his 
comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer" won a triumphant success at Covent 
Garden Theatre. He was surrounded by the leading artists, statesmen, and 




writers of the day; he was also a member of the famous Literary Club His 
inability to keep out of debt made him the slave of booksellers; his historical 
works were written to meet the wants of these creditors, and are not up to the 
general standard of his writings. He died in 1774 deeply mourned by his friends 
by the many recipients of his charity. (Poems, page 427.) 

LAWRENCE G. GOULDING. 

LAWRENCE G GOULDING was born in Clare, Ireland, in 1838, where he was 
educated and studied law. He came to America when quite a young man 11 
made New York his home, where he has since resided After devLg some 
time to law and journalism, Mr. Goulding entered the publishing busSess "n 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OP IRELAND. 



Ixix 



i he became extensively engaged. He is the author of a valuable work 
ititled "The Catholic Churches'of New York;" "Ireland's Destiny;" "An 







Epitome of Irish History," etc., etc. Mr. Goulding was an officer in the " gal- 
lant sixty-ninth " regiment, and for many years a commissioner of education. 
(Poems, page 925.) 




ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES. 

ALFRED P. GRAVES was born in Dublin in the year 1846.. but spent most of 
his life in the South of Ireland. His portrayals of the feelings of the pe; 



Ixx 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND 



are always true to nature, and the vein of humor that pervades his writings 
lends to them a peculiar charm, while never detracting from their dignity. For 
some years past he has lived in London, England. (Poems, page 914.) 



GERALD GRIFFIN. 

GERALD GRIFFIN, a most popular and talented Irish novelist and dramatist, 
was born in Limerick, December 12, 1803. As his parents desired him to study 
medicine he remained with an elder brother, Dr. Griffin, while they emigrated 
to the United States in 1820. His tastes inclining more to literature, he early 




contributed to Limerick newspapers, and in his nineteenth year wrote his 
drama of "Aguire." His brother, recognizing in Gerald the stamp of literary 
gemus ; encouraged him to go to London to work for fame and fortune. 
"Gisippus" was published while yet twenty, and at twenty-five "The 
CoUegians " was written. Unable to procure a manager who would purchase 
his dramas, he grew despondent. His ambition to write for the stage receiv- 
ing a chill from which he never recovered, he turned his attention to writing 
for magazines and soon acquired a brilliant reputation. But success had come 

) late; his health had become undermined by his unceasing toil, long vigils 
and disappointments. His " Holland Tide, " " Tales of the Munster Festivals, " 

The Rivals," 'The Invasion," "The Duke of Monmouth," a second series of 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ixxi 

1 Tales of the Munster Festivals," etc., prove his ability to perform the tasks to 
which he set himself. His poems are creations of a singularly beautiful and 
chaste imagination. His deeply religious nature yearning after a more perfect 
life, found its desire gratified in joining the Society of Christian Brothers. 

He died in Cork, June 12, 1840. After his death his tragedy of " Gisippus " 
was successfully brought out at Drury Lane Theatre. "The Collegians" has 
been successfully dramatized by Dion Boucicault as "The Colleen Bawn." 
(Poems, page 199.) 



LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 

TJISE IMOGEN GUINEY, the only child of General Patrick Eobert Guiney, 
was born in Boston, January 7th, 1861, her childish associations being mainly 
with camps and soldiers. She graduated from the Academy of the Sacred 
Heart, Elmhurst, Providence, R. L, in 1879, and began writing in the fol- 
lowing year, publishing " Songs at the Start " in 1884, and " Goosequill Papers " 
in 1885. (Poems, page 717.) 







CHARLES GEAHAM HALPINE. (MILES O'REILLY). 

GEN. CHAS. G. HALPINE, better known under his nom de plume of Miles 
O'Reilly, was born in the county of Meath, Ireland, in the year 1829. His 
father was an Episcopal clergyman and a man of eminent abilities, who about 
1840 became editor of the Dublin Evening Mail, the great Protestant organ of 
Ireland. Charles was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and on graduating, 
engaged in journalism. After spending a few years in London, he sailed for 
New York in 1852, where he became connected with the leading metropolitan 
journals. In 1856, he moved to Boston where he edited the Carpet Bag, a comic 
paper, in conjunction with Mr. Shillaber (" Mrs. Partington ") and Dr. Shepley. 
Returning to New York, he became associate editor of the Times, and subse- 
quently founded a journal of his own. At the beginning of the war, he went 
out with his countrymen under Col. Corcoran, and participated in the first battle 
of the war, Bull Run. He was afterwards removed to Major Gen. Hunter's 
staff, and subsequently served on the staff of Major Gen. Halleck. After being 
breveted Major General, he tendered his resignation, and returned to New York. 
He was elected to the office of City Register, which he held till his death in 1868. 
He was connected with the Young Ireland party in his youth, and remained an 
ardent patriot to the time of his death. His poem on " The Flaunting Lie "was 
written on the occasion of the return of Anthony Burns, a fugitive slave, from 
Boston to his Southern master by the United States authorities. It created a great 
sensation at the time, and as it first appeared in the N. Y. Tribune, it was for a 
time attributed to Horace Gieeley. The humorous poem, " Sambo's Right to be 
Kilt. " possesses a historical significance, as it powerfully contributed to dissipate 
the absurd prejudice of the white soldiers against admitting colored troops into 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 




the Union army. Gen. Halpine was the first man who advocated the use of 
colored troops in the army, and his commander, Gen. Hunter, was the first man 
who employed them. (Poems, page 873.) 

MRS. FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS, though born in England, may justly be placed 
among the poets of Ireland. Her father, whose name was Browne, was a native 
of Ireland and her mother was of Venetian decent and numbered in her history 
many of the Doges. She was born in 1793. It is said that at the early age of 
six years she had read Shakespeare and was familiar with all the characters of 
the great poet. When she was about seven years old her father retired to a 
wild and romantic spot on the sea shore of Wales. Here she lived for several 
years, reading and studying constantly, but receiving little practical help from 
others. When but eight years of age she began writing poetry, and a volume of 
her poems published in her fourteenth year attracted considerable attention. In 
1812 she married Captain Hemans, but the marriage proved unhappy, and they 
lived but a few years together. 

Her character was as delicate and refined as her poems were pure and beauti- 
ful. Sir Walter Scott said to her, as she was leaving Abbotsford after a long 
visit, "There are some whom we meet, and should like ever after to claim as 
kith and kin : and you are one of those." Mrs. Hemans removed to Dublin, Ire- 
land, some years before her death, which occurred in that city in 1835. Her re- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ixxiii 



mains were interred in St. Anne's Church, Dublin. Lord Jeffrey, in a critique 
of unstinted praise, ranks Mrs. Hemans as "beyond all comparison the most 




. touching and accomplished writer of occasional verses that our literature has 
yet to boast of." (Poems, page 978.) 

JOHN KELLS INGEAM. 

J. K. INGRAM was born in Dublin in the year 1822, and has been for many 
years a professor in Trinity College, Dublin. He is the author of " Who Fears 
to Speak of '98," written at the time of the Young Ireland movement, one of 
the most spirited of Irish songs. He is at present engaged in an exhaustive 
work, to be entitled, " The History of Political Economy." He has never taken 
any part in political affairs. (Poems, page 844.) 



ISABEL C. IEWIN. 

MRS. WILLIAM H. IRWIN was born in the city of Dublin, Ireland, but was 
brought here by her father William H. Dunn, together with her sister Mary, now 
Mrs. Burke, and her brother, John P. Dunn, who was distinguished during the 
war with the South as one of the most successful of the Herald correspondents, 
his letters being compared to those of Bussell of the London Times. Isabel 
C. Dunn married, when about 20 years of age, Mr. William H. Irwin. She was 



Ixxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

a girl of remarkable personal attractions, witty and vivacious, who although she 
wrote much, seemed to care little for literary fame, which is to be regretted, as 
the few poems which were published possessed great merit. She and her sister, 
Mrs. Burke, reside in New York, where they enjoy the society of a large and 
appreciative circle of friends. (Poem, page 910.) 



THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN. 

THOMAS CAULFIELD IRWIN was born in Warrenpoint, county Down, Ireland, 
on May 4th, 1823. His father Thomas Irwin was a practising physician of the 
place and his mother Anne Maria Cooke was the daughter of Caulfield Cooke, a 
barrister in Dublin. No expense was spared on his education. He inclined to 
literature when a youth, and being independent in circumstances he wrote for 
amusement. He has been connected with literature, as a writer of poetry and 
prose since 1853. Seven volumes of his poetical compositions have been published, 
namely, "Versicles," 1856; "Poems," 1866; "Ballads," 186S; "Songs and Ro- 
mances," 1878; "Pictures and Songs," 1880; "Sonnets on the Poetry and 
Problems of Life," 1881; " Winter and Summer Stories," and at present writ- 
ing, has a volume in press entitled "Poems, Songs and Sketches." He is the 
author of over one hundred and twenty stories and sketches, and a work in three 
volumes which is an antique romance, entitled " From Caesar to Christ," as also 
several dramas. It will be seen that Mr. Irwin is a prolific writer. His produc- 
tions are noted for picturesque word-painting of scene and situation, in variety 
of subject, fancy and imagination, and artistic finish in the form and diction of 
his poetical compositions. He is at present on the staff of The Irish Times, 
Dublin. (See Poems page 911.) 



ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 

DR. ROBERT DWYER JOYCE, an eminent physician and celebrated poet, was 
born in Ireland about 1831. His poems are exclusively Irish in their subjects, 
he having had an intense love and appreciation for the legends and literature 
of his native country. His first venture, a volume of ballads, romances and 
songs, was published in Dublin in 1861. All his subsequent writings were 
published in Boston, Mass., which city he made his residence during the last 
seventeen years of his life, and where he enjoyed a position as one of the leading 
lights in the literary and social world. In 1868 and 1871, appeared " Legends 
of the Wars in Ireland," and "Fireside Stories of Ireland," followed by 
" Ballads of Irish Chivalry. " His finest work, " Deirdre, " was published in 1876. 
This immediately won universal popularity, 10,000 copies being sold in a few 
days. His last poem, " Blanid," also merits much praise and won much favor. 
His desire to write a long poem on " The Courtship of Imar " was not gratified, 
failing health making it necessary to cease all labor. 

In the hope of regaining strength he sought his native land, where he died 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ixxv 




the 23d of October, 1883, in less -than two months after reaching its shores. 
Dr. Joyce was one of the leading medical practitioners of Boston, and was greatly 
beloved by all who knew him. (Poems, page 707.) 



REV. JAMES KEEGAN. 

REV. JAMES KEEGAN<was born in the county of Leitrim, Ireland, in the year 
BO, and is at present attached to the church of St. Malachy, St. Louis, Mo. 
His numerous contributions, both in poetry and prose, to the daily press, and 
several publications, have made his name well known to Irish-American readers. 
Father Keegan is a thorough Irish scholar, and many of his finest poems are 
translations or renderings from the too-long neglected bards of old. (Poems, 
page 900.) 

JOHN KEEGAN. 

JOHN KEEGAN was born in 1809, on the banks of the Nore, in Queens County. 
He received only a common-school education, and was all his life essentially a 
man of the people. He was the author of many poems of singular beauty. 
Says a biographer: "All the different phases of Irish passion the fierce out- 
bursts of anger the muttered tone of contempt all the deep and heart-rending 
sorrow of the people he was master of all. Not a side of the Irish character 



Ixxvi 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



was there that he did not probe and understand. ' ' 
page 823.) 

W. D. KELLY. 



He died in 1349. (Poems, 



REV. WILLIAM D. KELLY was born in Ireland in the year 1846. He was 
educated in Boston and Worcester, and having completed his course of theology 
was ordained a priest of the diocese of Boston. Eev. Mr. Kelly is well known 
for many years as a contributor to the journals and periodicals of the day, in 
prose and verse. His poems are numerous and of a high order of merit. 
(Poems, page 940.) 

CHARLES J. KICKHAM. 

CHARLES JOSEPH KICKHAM was born u^the village of Mullinahone, in Tip- 
perary county, Ireland, in 1830. He was descended from a wealthy and highly 
respected family. In his eighteenth year he met with an accident which nearly 




destroyed his sight and hearing for the remainder of his life. He was an ardent 
nationalist, and at an early age wrote fugitive pieces for the periodicals. He 
joined the Fenian organization, was arrested and condemned to fourteen years 
penal servitude. He was released, after four years' incarceration. Many of his 




CHARLES LEVER. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ixxvii 

poems are very popular, especially in the South of Ireland. He also wrote a 
highly dramatic and powerful novel on the sufferings of the Irish peasantry 
"Sally Kavanagh: or the Untenanted Graves." He died at his home in Tip- 
perary in 1SS2. (Poems, page 831.) 



DENNY LANE. 

DENNY LANE was born in Cork about the year 1825, and after the establish- 
ment of the Nation became a contributor to that journal. " He had," says Mr. 
Duffy, "a singularly prolific mind, which threw out showers of speculation, 
covering a wide field of art, philosophy and practical politics." His poems are 
few. Mr. Lane still resides in the city of Cork, and has ever remained an ardent 
and consistent patriot. (Poem, page 839.) 



. CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 

CHARLES JAMES LEVER, a most successful Irish novelist, was born in Dublin, 
August 31, 1806. He was educated for the medical profession, having taken 
his degree at Trinity College, also a degree at Gottingen, where he afterward 
studied. During the cholera which visited Ireland in 1832, as medical super- 
intendent, he acquired notable repute for his ability and skill in coping with 
the disease. Shortly afterward he became attached to the British Legation at 
Brussels in his professional capacity. During this time he published as a serial 
the novel " Harry Lorrequer," which met with unbounded popularity. Other 
novels followed in rapid succession: " Charles O'Malley," " Jack Hinton," Our 
Mess," " The O'Donoghue," " The Dodd Family Abroad," " Arthur O'Leary," 
and a host of others, in fact a whole library of graphic sketches introducing 
amusing incidents of Irish life and character. His anonymous writings are 
almost as numerous, among the best of which are his " Diary of Horace Tem- 
pleton" and "ConCregan." Most of his life was passed on the Continent, 
being appointed to a consiilar post on the Mediterranean. He died at Trieste 
in 1872. (Poems, page 661.) 

, 

I' 



JOHN LOCKE. 



JOHN LOCKE was born near the town of Callan, in the historic county 
of Kilkenny, Ireland, in 1847, and died at his home, 296 Henry Street, New 
York City, on January 31st. 1889, at the comparatively early age of 42 years. As 
an Irish poet he became famous in Irish circles many years ago under the nom 
deplume, of "The Southern Gael." As a patriot he was distinguished for the 
ardent love which he bore his native land, and which is voiced in his passionate 
and musical verses. He was quite familiar with the scenes, history and tradi- 
tions of Ireland. While yet in his teens he became connected with the Irish 






Ixxviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

Eevolutionary or Fenian movement, and having participated in the " rising " of 
March, 1867, he was arrested and imprisoned, and after his release in the same 
year he migrated to the United States and settled in New York. His bright 
talents and liberal education soon secured him employment on the staff of the 
Emerald, then one of the representative Irish-American journals, and in which 
many of his best poems appeared. He subsequently edited the Celtic Wee!.-/;/, 
the Citizen and Celtic Monthly, besides contributing frequently to the Sunday 




Democrat, Irish-American, Boston Pilot, and other papers. His poems were 
always extensively copied, the best-known among them being his fine ballad 
entitled " Dawn on the Irish Coast." Apart from his poetry, he wrote several 
stories and numerous short sketches, in which he cleverly depicted Irish scenery 
and Irish character. His two brothers are in the Catholic Priesthood the Eev. 
Joseph Locke, now in Rome, and the Rev. Michael A. Locke, of St. Augustine 
College, Villanova, Pa. (Poems, page 993.) 

MRS. JOHN LOCKE (MARY A. COONEY). 

MARY A. COONEY was born in the town of Clonmel, Tipperary, Ireland. She 
was educated in the National school of her native town, and when scarcely six- 
teen years of age was a welcome contributor to most of the Irish national period- 
icals of the day. The most of her poems were published in the Dublin Irishman, 
The Flag of Ireland, and The Shamrock. In the year 1879, Miss Cooney came 
to the United States, and meantime continued to contribute to both Irish and 
Irish- American serial publications. In 1881, she married the Irish poet, John 
Locke, whose untimely death has been regretted by the Irish people in all lands. 
Since her marriage Mrs. Locke has written less than formerly, but her produc- 
tions are always welcome. She resides in New York City. (Poems, page 907.) 







A ' 



SAMUEL LOVER. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ixxix 



SAMUEL LOVER. 

SAMUEL LOVER, novelist, poet, musician and artist, was born in Dublin, 
Ireland, 1797. His paintings, which were exhibited at the Royal Academy in 
1833, gained for him the notice of the public, and he became miniature painter 
to the local aristocracy, at the same time cultivating his taste for literature. 
" Legends and Shrines of Ireland," published in 1832 in Dublin, was his first 
venture; the illustrations were by himself. This book won such a reputation 
and became so popular, that a second edition was published in 1834. Taking 
up his residence in London he contributed largely to the literature of the time, 
also writing some of the wittiest novels in the English language. Of these 
" Rory O'More " and " Handy Andy " have been dramatized. His other works 
are " Treasure Trove," " Lyrics of Ireland," " Metrical Tales," and other poems. 
Next to Thomas Moore he is the best known and most popular writer of Irish 
songs. The best known of them are, " Rory O'More," " Molly Bawn," " The 
Low-Backed Car," and "The Angel's Whisper." He was very popular in 
society, where he sang his own songs. His visit to the United States in 1847 
proved him a general favorite. He died in 1SG8. (Poems, page 179.) 

DANIEL R. LYDDY. 

' DANIEL R. LYDDY was born in the City of Limerick. Ireland, in the year 
1842- he was the eldest son of Mr. P. Henry Lyddy, T. C., a prominent mer- 




chant and a member of the town council of that city. Mr. Lyddy was 
educated at the Jesuits' College, Crescent House, Limerick, and was noted 
as a class orator, and for his proficiency in the French and German languages. 



Ixxx 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



At an early age he became a leader in the National movement of twenty 
years ago and endured much suffering for his country's cause. He first 
visited the United States during the late Civil War, and returned making his 
home in New York in 1867. He was admitted to the bar in 1870, and subse- 
quently, on motion of the Solicitor General of the United States, was called to 
the bar of the Supreme Court of the United States which sits at the Capitol, 
Washington, D. C. In 1873, Mr. Lyddy was tendered the nomination by the 
young Democracy of New York for Judge of the Marine Court, which he de- 
clined in favor of Judge Spaulding. 

Mr. Lyddy was the founder and publisher of three journals and had a large 
and lucrative law practice. He wrote several works of fiction and some fugitive 
poems. At the bar he was an eloquent advocate, in the lyceum he was an in- 
structive lecturer, in conversation brilliant, and as a host almost without any 
superior. He died in New York of pneumonia after a week's illness, November 
27th. 1887. He left surviving him three brothers, two of whom are members of 
the legal profession. (Poem, page 894.) 

EDWARD LYSAGHT. 

EDWARD LYSAGHT was born in the county of Clare, Ireland, in 1763. He 
was educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and was called both to the English and 




Irish bar. A small collection of his writings was published in Dublin, shortly 
after his death, which occurred in 1811. (Poems, page 924.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ixxxi 



MICHAEL JOSEPH McCANN. 

MICHAEL JOSEPH McCANN was born in Galway, about the year 1824. His 
earlier studies, which were conducted under a private tutor, were followed by a 
successful collegiate course. While yet a very young man, scarcely more than 
twenty, he accepted the professorship of sciences. French, etc , offered him by 
the illustrious Archbishop McHale, in St. Jarlath's College, Tuam, and the glow- 
ing testimonials bestowed upon him on leaving that Institute bore testimony to 
the brilliant manner in which he had for eight years filled that position. 

It was during that period memorable in Irish history for the "Repeal " agita- 
tion, that the spirit of patriotism, which distinguished him throughout his life, 
found expression in the glorious war song, " O'Donnell Abu," a song which is 
sung wherever the Irish race is represented, and which has been translated into 
four languages. This poem was set up by the printers of the Dublin Nation, 
and had a local reputation among the little community of printers long before 




the world heard of it. He had, prior to this, contributed some of the most spir- 
ited poems that appeared in the Spirit of the Nation, one of which, ' ' The Battle 
of Glendalough. " was translated into French by the Vicomte O'Neillde Tyrone, 
Prefect of Paris, and recited at a banquet given to the descendents of nota- 
ble Irishmen in that city. His many contributions of prose and verse, extending 
over a period of. more than thirty years, all breathe the same spirit love of Ire- 
land and hatred of the tyranny under which she groaned. 

Most of his poems are descriptive of battles and are literally his- 
torical episodes in verse, to secure the minute accuracy of which no labor was 
spared in searching out the rarest sources of information. In 1859 he 
published a magazine, The Irish Harp, of which he was editor, and 
which continued to appear until 1SG5. After the collapse of the Fenian 



Ixxxii 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



movement he went to reside in London, still contributing to the Irish press lead- 
ers which were frequently copied verbatim into American papers. He died in 
London, January 31st, 1883, having laid down the pen only three days before his 
death, and leaving a number of unpublished poems, full of the love of country 
a love increased rather than diminished by a residence in England. His obit- 
uaries, appearing in many of the leading Irish papers, and even in some of the 
pro-Irish English ones, bear testimony not only to his talents, but also to the 
unflinching integrity and honor of the man qualities which made him proof 
against many a tempting offer to wield his pen against his country's cause. 

He is buried in St. Patrick's Cemetery, near London, the place where he 
rests being fitly marked by a handsome Irish cross entwined with shamrocks 
and, bearing within its arms the twofold inscription God and my country, 
and O'Donnell Abu ! (Poems, page 845.) 




DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY, poet, bom in Dublin 1820. Composed ballads, 
poems, and lyrics, chiefly based on Irish traditions, written in a patriotic spirit 
and published in 1850. The volume includes translations from nearly every 
European language. His translation of Calderon's poems into English verse, 
with notes, was published in 1853. He has also written " Bell-founder " and 
other poems, " Shelley's Early Life, " etc. In 1871 he received a pension in con- 
sideration of his merit as a poet. He died in 1882. (Poems, page 297.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 



Ixxxiii 



JUSTIN HUNTLY McCARTHY. 

JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY is a son of the eminent novelist and historian, Justin 
McCarthy. He is twenty-nine years of age. He is the author of a number 




historical works on contemporary events, and he has produced the best farce 
since Sheridan, " The Candidate." He has also published two volumes of verse. 
He is a member of Parliament, and like his distinguished father, an ardent 
nationalist. (Poems, page 852.) 



EEV. WILLIAM JAMES McCLURE. 

REV. WILLIAM McCLURE was born of Irish pai ents at Dobb's Ferry, Westches- 
ter County, New York, November 23d, 1842. He received a " common-school " 
education in his native place, and from childhood was noted for his love of re- 
tirement and reading. At the age of eighteen he entered upon mercantile life 
in the city of New York, and continued thereat until 1872, when, feeling the 
strength of his vocation to the priesthood, he put himself under the direction of 
Rev. Father T. S. Preston, now the Right Rev. Vicar-General of the Archdiocese 
of New York, and went to Seton Hall College, South Orange, N. J., then under 
the presidency of Rev. Father M. A. Corrigan, now the most Rev. Archbishop of 
New York. Mr. McClure's progress was such that he was enabled to take up 
philosophy in St. Therese College, Canada, in 1873. He entered the Great Sem- 
inary, Montreal, for his theological course in 1874, was ordained sub-deacon in 
.1876, Deacon in the spring of 1877, and priest, December 22d, 1877, by Bishop 
Fabre, of Montreal. On Rev. Father McClure's arrival in New York to com- 
mence his mission, Cardinal McCloskey, then Archbishop, appointed him as 



Ixxxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 

assistant to Eev. H. C. Macdowall, St. Agues' Church, New York City. He was 
for a while assistant to Eev. Dr. McGlynn, St. Stephen's Church. In 1882 he was 
called to St. Ami's, as first assistant to Eight Eev. Mgr. Preston, where he 
continued his priestly work, until appointed in 1886 by Archbishop Corrigan. 
Eector of the church of the Sacred Heart of Barrytown, Dutchess County. 
N. Y., the parish including Eed Hook and Tivoli. He is still (1889) in charge of 
that mission. 

Eev. Father McClure early evinced talent for literary pursuits, and from the 
period of his going to New York (1860), he continued to write, and found his pen 
moving into poetical lines, insomuch that he published, in 1869, a volume of 




poems, the principal one of which is " Zillora; A Tale." His impressions of na- 
ture are shown by a number of smaller pieces; also his patriotism shines forth 
in uncompromising measures. 

During his priesthood Father McClure's poems have been mainly of a religious 
caste. They accumulated in ten years, so that in 1888, he made a selection of 
the whole body of his poetical pieces and published them in one volume, 12mo, 
pp. 190. The book has been well received. Some of the poems are given in the 
present work by permission of the Rev. author. Father McClure's sympathy 
for Ireland is well-known, and we take pleasure in publishing undoubted evi- 
dences of his love of the green land of his forefathers. Also some specimens are 
given of devotional poetry, and some inspired by external nature. (Poems 
Page 1003.) 

HUGH FAEEAE McDEEMOTT. 

HUGH FARRAR MCDERMOTT was born at Enniskillen, Ireland, on the 16th of 
August, 1835. He was intended for the law, and was prepared for college by 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ixxxv 



the Kev. Kobert Elliot, a Methodist minister of Beltwebet, in the county 
Cavan. His parentage was Scotch-Irish. His mother's name was Helen 
Cairns. His father, Thomas Gould McDerrnott, failed in mercantile business in 
1849. He came to this country the same year with his family, and purchased a 
homestead near Boston, where he soon afterward died. Mr. McDermott entered 
the late Judge Brigham's office in Boston, as a law student, but soon found a 
ready market for his sketches and a wide appreciation of his verses, and at 
seventeen he had made a local fame in literature. He was a writer on the 
Boston Post, Courier, Transcript, and Advertiser, and in New York on the 




Fimes, Tribune, Herald, and Leader. His literary successes have been many. 
G. P. Putnam's Sons have published two editions of his poems, and a third will 
soon be ready for the press. Several of his poems, notably " The Blind Canary," 
have been translated into many languages. Of one of Mr. McDermott's poems 
Oliver Wendell Holmes has said: " If I could sing as I once thought I could, I 
would make the air vocal with " Do Not Sing That Song Again.'" Of his poem 
" Self -Communing," the late Chauncey C. Burr said, in a published criticism: 
" Some lines of ; Self -Communing ' are as sublime and weird as Byron's ' Man- 
fred, ' and others are as closely philosophical as the ' De Natura Eerum ' of 
Lucretius. It is a poem of extraordinary power." (Poems, page 921.) 

THOMAS D'AECY McGEE. 

D'ARCY McGEE was born in Carlingford, Ireland, on April 13, 1825, and died 
by the hands of a fanatic assassin in Ottawa, Canada, April 7, 1868. In 1842 
he emigrated to America, taking up his residence in Boston, where he became 
editor of The Pilot, the leading Irish- American newspaper in America. In 
1845, he returned to Ireland, and was engaged by the Dublin Freeman to report 
the Parliamentary debates. In 1846, he joined the staff of the Dublin Nation, 



lixxvi 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 



and became a leading figure in the Young Ireland movement. In 1849, he ajsu'n 
came to America, where he published, during nine years, The, New York 
Nation, afterwards The American Celt. He became nationally known as a 
lecturer, organizer and poet. In 1857, he went to reside in Montreal, Canada, 
where he published a paper called The New Era. He was soon elected to Par- 
liament, and was re-elected every year till his death. He was twice a member 
of the Canadian ministry, as Secretary for Agriculture and Emigration, and 
once as President of the Executive Council. It was he who framed the draft 




for the confederation of the British American colonies, which has since been 
substantiated. He was returning from Parliament on the night of April 7, 18G8, 
when he was shot at the door of his hotel by a man named Whalen, who was, 
it was charged on his trial, a Fenian agent; but was in aU probability a self- 
acting lunatic. D'Arcy McGee published many books, all of deep research and 
wide interest. Particularly interesting are his " Irish Settlers in North America 
from the Earliest Periods to 1850" (Boston, 1857); " O'Connell and His Friends;" 
" Popular History of Ireland," etc. His poems were published by Sadlier and 
Co., New York, with an introduction by Mrs. Sadlier. (Poems, page 808.) 

THOMAS J. McGEOGHEGAN. 

THOMAS J. MCGEOGHEGAN was born in Bay View Avenue, Dublin, Ireland, 
in the year 1836. He went, when eight months old, to Ballymahon, county of 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Ixxxvii 



Longford, whither his parents removed. He was educated in Mount Mellerey 
and All Hallow's College, Ireland. After completing his studies he came to the 
United States, where he has since resided. He is at present connected with the 
New York Press. His poems are mostly of a patriotic or religious character. 
(Poem, page 970.) 



JOHN J. McGINNIS. 

JOHN J. McGiNNis was born in St. John, N. B., July 24th, 1864. While yet 
young he moved with his parents to Boston. In 1375, he went to Ireland. 
There he taught an Irish national school for a time, but after a few years he 




came to New York where he entered the field of journalism. In this sphere his 
abilities soon found ample recognition. He is at present connected with the 
editorial management of the Catholic News, a weekly paper published in 
New York City. (Poems, page 982.) 



EICHAED MAcHALE. 

EICHARD MACHALE was born in Liverpool in 1862, his mother being a niece 
of the late Archbishop John MacHale of Tuam, " the Lion of the Fold of Judah." 
Young MacHale, after leaving the Christian Brothers' schools at Westport. Mayo, 
spent a short time in St. Jarlath's College, Tuam. He published several poems 
in the local papers at this time and soon was known in Young Ireland and the 



Ixxxviii 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Weekly Netvtt under the nom de plume " Eicardo." These juvenile efforts were 
afterwards collected and published in a small volume. Returning to Liverpool 
he engaged in literary work on the Daily Telephone and in 1882 came to the 




United States. He has been five years on the editorial staff of the Irish World 
and has published poems in the Boston Pilot, Scranton Youth, and other jour- 
nals. (Poems, page 1001.) 




DE. WILLIAM MAGINN. 

' 

DR. WM. MAGINN, a distinguished writer, born in Cork, July, 1V93. At ten he 
entered Trinity College, Dublin, graduating in his fourteenth year. He returned. 




FRANCIS MAHONY. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. Ixx.xix 

to Cork, assisting in his father's school, in which, later, he succeeded as princi- 
pal. In 1816 he received the degree of Doctor of Laws. His contributions to 
the Literary Gazette and Blackwood" 's Magazine gained him fii'sf rank in litera- 
ture. He became junior Editor of the Standard in 1828, and the following 
year, in conjunction with the owner, projected Fraser's Magazine. After de- 
tention for debt in 1842, he retired to Walton-on-Thames where he died of con- 
sumption, at the age of forty-nine. (Poems, page 681.) 



FEANCIS MAHONEY (" FATHEE PEOUT "). 

EEV. FRANCIS MAHONEY (" Father Prout"), a charming poet and versatile 
writer, was born in Cork about 1803. Entering college at an early age he com- 
pleted his academic course, with much credit and finally was admitted to the 
priesthood, and appointed curate to Father Prout, an old clergyman who resided 
some eight miles from Cork. While fulfilling his duties in this quiet country 
district, Father Mahoney sent many successful contributions to the Cork jour- 
nals under the signature "Father Prout," much to the bewilderment of the 
good old priest. Articles sent to London periodicals and Eraser's Magazine 
meeting with favorable reception, he became weary of the monotony of a poor 
curate's life, and allured by the desire of literary fame, he abandoned his pro- 
fession and entered the world of letters. In London his genius met with the 
recognition it deserved, and a rivalry ensued among the leading journals as to 
which should secure his services. Finding the atmosphere of Paris more to his 
tastes, he went to reside there in his fortieth year, and was correspondent of 
two daily English journals, the News and Globe. He contributed his whimsi- 
cal papers " The Eeliques of Father Prout," to Fraser's Magazine. These were 
afterwards published in book form. His " Bells of Shandon " and " Groves of 
Blarney" have enjoyed a world- wide reputation. He died in Paris, May 19, 
1866. His remains were brought to Cork and buried under the shadow of 
Shandon steeple. (Poems, page 221.) 



JAMES CLAEENCE MANGAN. 

JATVIES CLARENCE MANGAN was'born in Dublin in 1803. His father, a grocer, 
becoming bankrupt, James, was in his fifteenth year obliged to earn a livelihood. 
He drudged as a scrivener for seven years, from five o'clock in the morning 
until eleven at night, and afterwards became solicitor's clerk for three years. 
His earnings went toward the support of himself and parents. This period of 
his life he afterwards refers to as a time when a special providence prevented 
him from committing suicide. Obtaining an engagement in the magnificent 
library of Trinity CoUege, he took advantage of means at his disposal, and ac- 
quired a proficiency in many languages. In his twenty-seventh year he published 



xc BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAM1. 

poetical translations from the German and Irish, which appeared in the Dublin 
University. His German translations were afterwards collected and published 
under the title of ' ' Anthologica Germanica. ' ' His translations from the ancient 
Gaelic bards, show wonderful fidelity in adhering to the spirit and metre of the 
original. These won for him the friendship of Dr. Petre and Eugene O'Curry, 
which he prized very dearly. He became a regular contributor to the Dublin 
Nation, The United Irishman and The Dublin University, and for these he 
wrote exquisite translations, some of which are said to surpass even the original, 
such as " Lays of Many Lands, " and " Literae Orientales. " He also contributed 




numerous original poems, noted for their chaste expression and exquisite pathos. 
Among the best known are "Dark Kosaleen" and "0 Woman of Three 
Cows "(?) 

Of the most exquisite sensibility and fine impulses, his life-long poverty and 
misery threw a cloud over his entire existence, and seeking solace in stimulants, 
which undermined his health, he broke down under the weight of disease, and 
at his own request was admitted to Meath Hospital, where he died June 13, 1849. 
(Poems, page 337.) 

THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. 

THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. the well-known Irish nationalist and orator, was 
born in Waterford, Aug. 3d, 1823. He was educated by the Jesuits at Clongowes 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



xci 



and Stoneyhurst Colleges, and entered public life in 1843, with a gi-eat reputa- 
tion for his oratorical abilities. He became a zealous repealer, and soon joined 
the Young Ireland party. His fiery eloquence was instrumental in stimulating 
the quasi insurrection of 18-18. He was arrested and tried for high treason, and, 
on the 23d of October of that year, was condemned to be hanged, drawn and 
quartered. This sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life. In 1849, 
he was sent to Tasmania, from whence he escaped in 1852, coming to New 




k. In America he soon became distinguished as a popular lecturer and 
journalist. He was admitted to the New York bar, but never practised. When 
the war broke out he entered the Union army, and soon rose to the rank of 
brigadier-general. He commanded the Irish Brigade, and won distinction in 
many of the bloodiest battles of the war. At the conclusion of the conflict he 
was appointed by President Johnson Secretary of Montana, and died by accident- 
ally falling off a steamer in the Missouri, July 1st, 1867, while Acting Governor 
of that Territory. (Poems, page 857.) 



REV. C. P. MEEHAN. 

REV. CHARLES P. MEEHAN was born in Dublin, Ireland, July 12th. 1812. His 
earliest recollections are associated with Ballymahon, county Longford, where 
his ancestors for thirteen centuries were the keepers and custodians of the shrine 
of St. Molaise, now one of the famous relics of the Royal Irish Academy. His 
first preceptor was an Irish head school-master. When a youth of sixteen he 
entered the Irish College, Rome, as a candidate for the priesthood. It was while 
gazing on the broken flagstone, whose time-worn epitaph faintly indicated a 
Royal Prince of Tyrconnell as the occupant of the grave in St. Isidore's, that he 






xcii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

was inspired with the idea which eventually resulted in the history of the exiled 
Earls. In 1835, after his ordination, Father Meehan returned to Ireland and 
was stationed as curate at Rathduin. When the Nation newspaper was started 
in 1842, Father Meehan became one of its most valued contributors. He pre- 
pared the " Confederation of Kilkenny " for Duffy's Library of Ireland. Father 
Meehan's house was a favorite place of meeting for the young Ireland leaders and 
writers of the Nation. Some years later, Father Meehan published his " Rise and 
Fall of the Irish Franciscan Monasteries and the Irish Hierarchy in the Sixteenth 




Century." In 1847, he issued a splendid translation of Manzoni's "La Monica di 
Monza," a continuation of the ' ; Promessi Sposi." Five years later appeared his 
English version of Father Marchesi's "Dominican Sculptors, Architects and 
Painters." The "Flight of the Earls" is, however, his great and crowning 
work, having been pronounced by competent critics as superior to even the great 
works of Scottish romance. Father Meehan was the life-long friend of that 
erratic genius Clarence Mangan, and prepared him for death. He has recently 
edited a complete edition of Mangan's works, and though now in his seventy- 
seventh year, his prolific pen is as busy as ever. (Poem, page 1012.) 

EICHAED ALFRED MILLION. 

RICHARD A. MILLIKIN was born in the county of Cork in 1767. He was for 
a, time editor of a Cork magazine, and wrote several fugitive poems. He is best 
known by the humorous ballad, " The Groves of Blarney," written about 1798, 
in imitation or ridicule of the rambling rhapsodies then so popular among the 
Irish peasantry. He became conspicuous during the insurrection of 1798 by his 
zeal and activity in the formation of yeomanry corps. He died in 1815, and was 
buried at Douglas, near Cork. (Poem, page 820.) 




THOMAS MOORE. 



IMOURAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



XC1IL 



THOMAS MOORE. 

THOMAS MOORE, the greatest Irish lyrist, was born in Dublin, May 28, 1779. In 
lis eleventh year, an epilogue written by him was read at Lady Borrowe's private 
theatre, in Dublin. His teacher, Mr. Whyte, also instructor of Eichard Brinsley 
Sheridan, encouraged the dramatic tastes of his pupils, and Moore became noted 
even in his early youth for his proficiency in music and theatrical effects. On 
the opening of Trinity College to Catholics, Moore entered to study law; here 
he distinguished himself as a successful and brilliant student, and here he be- 
came the friend of Robert Emmet, who was also a student there. During this 
period Moore contributed to leading periodicals, and at home studied French, 
Italian and Music. His translation from the Greek " Odes of Anacreon " prov- 
ing a success, Moore threw aside his law and entered upon literature as a pro- 
fession. In 1803, he received a government appointment at Bermuda, but 
becoming dissatisfied, he appointed a deputy as substitute and travelled over 
the United States and Canada before returning to England. His " Odes and 
Epistles " were published in 1806. Five years afterwards he married a young 
Irish actress, Miss Bessy Dykes, and settled in the neighborhood of his friend 
Lord Moira. For his Eastern romance " Lalla Roohk," published in 1817, he 
was paid 3000, and it was received with universal approbation. His news- 
paper contributions added greatly to his income, yet while enjoying literary 
success, he became indebted to the amount of 6000 through the dishonesty of 
his deputy. To cancel this debt was his most earnest ambition. During this 
period he travelled through France and Italy, writing " The Fudge Family in 
Paris," " Loves of the Angels," and " Rhymes on the Road." Clearing his in- 
debtedness, he returned to England, where he produced in 1825 a biography of 
R. B. Sheridan, in 1830 a "Life of Lord Byron," and completed in 1834 his 
" Irish Melodies," which have made him famous. His family relations were of 
the happiest character, and in his social life he was universally admired and 



sought after. 



He died in 1852. (Poems, page 31.) 



LADY SIDNEY MORGAN. 

LADY SIDNEY MORGAN was born in Dublin between 1780 and 1786. Her 
father, MacOwen or Owenson, was an actor and a man of ability. In her four- 
teenth year Sidney published a volume of poems, and in 1804 her novel " St. 
Clair.or The Heiress of Desmond." appeared, and two years later her " Wild Irish 
Girl," which established her reputation as a novelist. In 1812, she married Sir 
Thomas Charles Morgan, M.D., having at the time saved 5000 from her liter- 
ary labors. Altogether her works are said to have brought her 25,000. She 
visited Italy and France, which resulted in several volumes of sketches concern- 
ing those countries. Her novels on Irish life and manners attracted much 



xciv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 

attention and were of great benefit to Ireland, then in a very depressed condi- 
tion. In 1837 she removed to London, where she was the centre of a brilliant 




literary circle. She died in that city April 13th, 1859. It was her novels on Irish 
life that first suggested to Sir Walter Scott the idea of writing the Waverley 
series. (Poem, page 825.) 

WILLIAM PEMBROKE MULCHLNOCK. 

WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK was born in Ireland and came to America at an 
early age. He soon engaged in journalism and won a reputation by his stirring 
poems and lyrics. In 1850, he published in Boston a volume of poems which he 
dedicated to Longfellow, who was an admirer of his talents. He died when 
about twenty -five years of age. (Poems, page 859.) 



ROSA MULHOLLAND. 

Miss ROSA MULHOLLAND was born in the city of Belfast, Ireland. She has 
been for many years a prolific contributor, in poetry and prose, to many of the 
best periodicals in England and Ireland. Many of her stories were contributed 
to Charles Dickens's All the Year Round. Several of her writings have been 






BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. xov 

translated into other languages. Her collected poems were published a few years 
.1 -<). Her best known stories are ''Hester's History," " The Wicked Woods of 




Tobereenil," "The Late Miss Hollingsf ord, " "Dummara," and " The Wild Birds 
of Killeeny." (Poems, page 1018.) 

JAMES MURPHY. 

James Murphy, Irish novelist and poet, was born in Glynn, county Carlow, 
in 1839. He entered the Training College for Teachers in Dublin in 1858, and 
commenced to write poetry for the Irishman and Nation newspapers. In 1860 he 
was appointed Principal of the Public Schools at Bray, the famous marine re- 
sort near Dublin, which position he held for many years. He afterward was 
elected to the posts of Town Clerk and Chairman of the Municipal Board of 
Commissioners ; finally resigning these to accept the Professorship of Mathema- 
tics in Saint Gall's Catholic University College, Dublin, which he still continues 
to hold. 

Mr. Murphy commenced his story writing many years ago. His first novel, 
"The Cross of Glencarrig," appeared in 1872, and at once attracted great atten- 
tion. Its great power and the marvellous skill in construction of the plot, at 
once made him famous. Since then he has written "The Shadow on the 
Scaffold," "The Forge of Clohogue," "Convict No. 25," "The Fortunes of 
Maurice O'Donnell," " The House on the Rath," " HughRoach the Ribbonman," 
"The Shan Van Vocht," "'The Haunted Church." A series of new novels is in 
course of publication by the London publishers, Messrs. Spencer, Blackett, Hallam 



xcvi BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

& Co. Mr. Murphy's poetry is contained in a volume of some two hundred pages 
entitled " Lays and Legends of Ireland." (Poems, page 1005.) 



KATHARINE MUEPHY. 

KATHARINE MURPHY was born in Cork, Ireland, and died in that city in 1885. 
She wrote for many years for the Irish press under the nom deplume of " Bridgid." 
Her poems are noted for their dramatic force and vigor. (Poems, page 968.) 



MRS. LOUISIANA MURPHY. 

MRS. LOUISIANA MURPHY is a native of Dublin, having first seen the light in 
the United States Consulate, Nelson Street, something better than thirty years 
ago. Her father, Mr. Hugh Keenan, was a Northerner, but emigrated early in 
life to America, where he studied law and was admitted to the Bar, practising 
with great success, and, subsequently, on his return to Ireland, being nominated 
United States Consul at Dublin and afterward at Cork. When tired of public 
life he resigned, purchased an estate in the North, and settled there with his 
family, ultimately becoming a Justice of the Peace for the county Monaghan. 

Mrs. Murphy had many opportunities of studying the peasantry, their dialect, 
etc., but her girlhood was for the most part spent away at school, her education 
being divided between the Loretto Convent, Balbriggan, and the Convent of Notre 
Dame, Tirlemont, Belgium. She always had a taste for writing, but frittered 
away much time in the composition of complimentary verses, birth and fete- 
day odes, addresses, etc., doing no serious work save the Libretto of a semi-Irish 
Operetta, which, although never published, was produced at the Loretto Con- 
vent in 1878 with marked success. 

On leaving school she had some thoughts of devoting herself to a literary 
career, but married instead, and literary ambition had to be sacrificed to the 
active domestic duties of her new sphere. She is now almost nine years married, 
and only during the past couple of years has she resumed writing. She has 
contributed some poems from time to time to various magazines, and has writ- 
ten the Libretto of an Irish National Opera (which sanguine critics predict will 
yet take its place upon the stage), the lyrical part of which, especially, has been 
highly commended. (Poems, page 1016.) 



CAROLINE NORTON. 

CAROLINE NORTON, born in 1808, was a daughter of Thomas Sheridan, son of 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and sister of Lady Dufferin. She married the Hon. 
G. C. Norton, and after his death, Sir William Stirling Maxwell. Her first 
marriage proved unhappy and led to protracted legal proceedings. She was 
widely known as a poet and novelist. Her death occurred in 1877. (Poems, 
page 821.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



xevu 






FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. 



Frrz-jAMES O'BRIEN was born iu the county of Limerick, Ireland, in 1830. of 
a well-known and respected family. He was educated at Trinity College, Dub- 
lin. He went to London, where he engaged in journalism, and shortly after 
came to New York. He soon won renown by the production of some of the 
most original poems and stories in the literature of his time. "He set up a 
model of excellence in magazine literature, which has made it better than it ever 
had been in this country before those tales were printed," says a biographer, 




referring to his stories published in Harper's Magazine and the Atlantic 
Monthly. He also wrote several pieces for the stage. At the outbreak of the 
war, O'Brien joined the Union army, serving on the staff of Gen. Lander. 
While on a foraging expedition, he met and attacked a large body of Confeder- 
ate troops, under the command of Col. Ashly . Both leaders engaged in a reg- 
ular duel, the result being that Ashly was killed and O'Brien mortally wounded. 
He died seven weeks afterward, April 6th, 1862. His works, edited by William 
Winter, were published in Boston in 1881. (Poems, page 870.) 






T. O'D. O'CALLAGHAN. 

f 

THOMAS O'DONNELL O'CALLAGHAN was born in 1847, in the town of Kil- 
mallock, county Limerick, Ireland, and came to this country in 1866. When 
but in his teens he was identified with the Fenian movement in Ireland 
and was the Kilmallock correspondent, under the nom de plume "Libertas." 
of the Fenian organ, the Dublin Irish People, which was suppressed by 



xcviii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH F.S <>K THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

the government. He also wrote some patriotic poetry for the Dublin //v'.s//- 
man of those days. Since coming to the United States, Mr. O'Callaghan has 
written extensively for the various New York Irish American weeklies and for 
the New York dailies, more especially the Daily Neivs, to which he has contri- 
buted many of his most characteristic verses. Mr. O'Callaghan is descended 




on the mother's side from the celebrated Shawn O'Dhear an Glanna (anglice, 
John O'Dwyer of the Glen) known as the Poet Huntsman, who flourished in 
Munster in the seventeenth century. His father, Innocent O'Callaghan, was 
a celebrated scholar and mathematician of Munster, whose name was familiar 
in his day throughout Ireland, and who died in 1868. He is a cousin of the 
Irish poet, Doctor Robert Dwyer Joyce. (Poems, page 931.) 

MARY EVA KELLY (MRS. O'DOHERTY). 

MARY EVA KELLY, the baptismal and family name of Mrs. O'Doherty, is de- 
scended from one of the most ancient and respectable families in Connaught. 
She was born at Headford, near Tuam, in the county of G-alway. On the 
mother's side she is a lineal descendant from " Graunu- Waille, " or Grace O'Mal- 
ley, the " Dark Lady of Doonah," who equipped a fleet and successfully held 
her own in lar or West Connaught against all the available power of Elizabeth 
of England. She, therefore, by the right and virtue of ancient inheritance, pos- 
sesses that proud and haughty spirit, impatient of English domination, that 
breathes everywhere through her National Poems. 

While on a visit to San Francisco some few years ago, Mrs. O'Doherty yielded 
to the solicitations of many admirers of her genius to publish a volume of her 
poems. Mr. P. J. Thomas of that city, who well remembered the glories that 
shone around the writers of the Nation in the memorable days of " '48," under- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



xcix 



took the enterprise. The book was well gotten up and received a hearty indorse- 
ment by the reviewers. But the Grolden West has not been prolific of success 
for publishers. The echo of the songs did not reach the great masses of Irish 
readers this side of the Eocky Mountains, and the market on the Pacific coast 
was not encouraging. It is a pity that the collection has not been more gener- 
ally circulated, and known among the lovers of Irish national poetry. " Eva " 
began to write when fourteen years old, but as few of her juvenile poems were 
published, no opinion can be formed of their merits. We may well suppose, 
however, that they indicated the latent genius which made the name of " Eva " 
familiar to the lovers of Irish song. It was the spirit of Grace O'Malley rather 




n the promptings of genius which urged her muse; for we are informed that 
she was tempted to write more from a patriotic feeling than a literary taste. 
Her early contributions to the Nation were over the signature of " Fionula," 
the daughter of King Leara (or Lir) who, the legend says, was, by the enchant- 
ter's wand, changed into a swan and doomed to glide over the rivers and lakes 
of Ireland until the Bell of Heaven should be heard ringing the call for the first 
mass. The "Lament for Thomas Davis," the first poem over the name of 
' ' Eva, ' ' was one of the best ever published in the Nation. She contributed after- 
ward to the United Irishman after John Mitchel had seceded from the O'Con- 
nell party. When John Martin published The Felon after Mitchel's exile, " Eva " 
contributed frequently to that journal. 



c BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

Of her subsequent marriage to Dr. Kevin Izod O'Doherty, and her emigration 
to Queensland, Australia, a good deal could be written; but the space in our 
work is limited. We can only add that through many changes, she still lives, 
having brought up a family of four sons and one daughter, all of whom are 
grown to maturity. Some are married, and the gentle poet of "'48 " is sur- 
rounded by children and grandchildren, far away from the land she loved and 
labored for. She writes occasionally, but not over her old signature. Collec- 
tively, her poems have been pronounced by the critics "a casket of Literary 
gems." (Poems, page 827.) 



JOHN FEANCIS O'DONNELL. 

JOHN FRANCIS O'DONNELL ("Caviare") a well-known journalist and poet, 
was born in the town of Kilkenny in the year 1837. Most of his life was spent 
on the London daily press, but he found time, amid the varied occupations of 
his profession, to contribute to the Irish magazines and journals of the day. 
His poems are of a high order of merit, and it is a matter of regret that they 
have never been collected and published in permanent form. He died in 1874. 
(Poems, page 835.) 

JUDGE O'HAGAN. 

JOHN O'HAGAN was born in the county of Down, Ireland, in the year 1822. 
He early became connected with Messrs. Duffy, Davis and Dillon on the staff of 




the Dublin Nation. He possessed extraordinary endowments, being, says Mr. 
Duffy, "the safest in council, the most moderate in opinion, the most consider- 




COL. THEODORE O'HARA. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE i'OKTS OF IRELAND. c i 

ate in temper of the young men, and after a time any of them would have had 
recourse to him, next after Davis, in a personal difficulty needing sympathy and 
discretion." Mr. O'Hagan subsequently became an eminent Queen's counsel, and 
one of the leaders of the Equity Bar of Ireland, and is at present Judge of the 
Irish Land Commission. His principal literary production is a striking and 
effective translation into English of the Chanson de Roland. (Poems, page 842.) 

COL. THEODORE O'HARA. 

THEODORE O'HARA was born in the town of Danville, Kentucky, in 1820. 
He was educated in the Catholic academy in Bardstown, in his native State. On 
completing his education, he devoted himself to the profession of journalism. 
On the outbreak of the Mexican war, he enlisted, obtaining the rank of Captain. 
On the occasion of the civil war he joined the Confederacy, and served on the 
staffs of Gens. Breckenridge and Albert Sidney Johnson. He died at his planta- 
tion in Alabama in 186T. The Kentucky Legislature had his remains trans- 
ferred to his native State and buried in the cemetery at Frankfort in 1872. 
" The Bivouac of the Dead," the poem by which he is best known, was written 
on the occasion of the erection of a monument to the memory of the Kentucky 
soldiers who fell in the Mexican war, and whose remains had been removed to 
their native State for interment. (Poem, page 860.) 

M. J. O'MAHONY. 

MARTIN JOSEPH O'MAHONY was born on the 8th of November, 1848, in the 
city of Cork, Ireland. In early childhood he showed a remarkable aptitude for 




music, singing when at the age of six years the works of the great masters, 
especially Mozart, for whose music he seems to have a particular love. Young 



cii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

O'Mahony had an exquisite voice, capable of singing when at the age of eight 
years such creations as the " Inflammatus " of Rossini, rendering the intricate 
and difficult passages with truly wonderful skill. He was educated by the Chris- 
tian Brothers at Peacock Lane Monastery. Besides music he, at the age of ten, 
showed a singular taste for poetry. In 1864, Mr. O'Mahony became connected with 
the Fenian movement, and was subjected to government prosecution. He shortly 
after came to the United States and at present resides in New York. He has 
written many dramatic sketches and stories of merit. (Poems, page 1022.) 



E. J. O'REILLY. 

EDWARD JAMES O'REILLY was born in the county of Cavan, Ireland, July 
27th, 1830. He came to the United States in 1851, and became connected with 
some of the leading journals of New York City. Owing to the then prevailing 
agitation against foreigners, especially those of his race, much of his early liter - 
ary work was published under a nom deplume. Most of his poems appeared/ 
over the signature of " Clio." He was a man of uoble character, generous, patri- 




otic, loved by his friends and esteemed by all who knew him. He died in New 
York, September 9th, 1880. Almost every newspaper in New York had editorial 
regrets for the sudden and early death of Mr. O'Reilly. One said, " Those who 
knew his gentleness of heart, his integrity of purpose, his true manliness and 
his unaltering friendship, know how good a man and capable a journalist has 
passed away." Another touched on a prominent feature of his character thus: 
" He was a devoted husband and father; a most companionable man; true as 
steel to those he loved, and as an employee faithful to the last degree." Aside 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. oiil 

from his journalistic duties, Mr. O'Reilly had a most refined and cultivated taste 
for books, busying himself in the hours not devoted to professional duties, in 
gathering rare and curious volumes, his collection being a comprehensive and 
valuable one. Mr. O'Reilly was a member of the Bar. but the work and ways 
of the lawyer had no attraction for him. No man ever died who was more 
deeply regretted by those who knew him. (Poems page 952.) 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY was born in Dowth Casllc, county Meath, Ireland, 
June 28, 1844. His father, William David O'Reilly, was a scholar and an anti- 
quarian, and his mother, Eliza Boyle, was a woman of an extremely rare and 
beautiful nature. John Boyle O'Reilly became a journalist in early manhood, 
and at twenty-one years of age was a revolutionist, arrested, tried for high 
treason, and sentenced to twenty years imprisonment in an English penal colony. 
At twenty-five he escaped from West Australia, and came to America. He 
has lived in Boston since 1869. He is the editor and part proprietor of The 
Pilot, perhaps the most widely known Irish- American newspaper. He has 
published five books: " Songs from the Southern Seas," " Songs, Legends and. 
Ballads," "Moondyne," "The Statues in the Block," "In Bohemia," and in 
union with three other authors, "The King's Men: a Tale of To-morrow." 
(Poems, page 751.) 

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

ARTHUR (Wilh'am Edgar) O'SHAUGHNESSY was a poet of great beauty and 
simplicity. He was born March 14, 1844. Obtaining a position at the British 
Museum as transcriber, after two years he was promoted to the Natural History 
Department. A volume containing many of his best poems was published in 
1870 under the title of an " Epic of Women." Among his other productions 
may be mentioned "Lays of France" and "Music and Moonlight." His 
" Songs of a Worker " were pubh'shed in 1881 after his death, which occurred 
in January 30 the same year. (Poems, page 730.) 



FANNY PARNELL. 

FANNY PARNELL, second sister of the National leader of Ireland, Charles 
Stewart Parnell, was one of four daughters of John H. and Delia L. S. Parnell, 
and was born at Avondale, the family estate, in county Wicklow, Ireland, about 
the year 1848. She was carefully trained at home, and though a Protestant, 
was sent, as many of the children of leading Irish families are, from Ireland to 
have her education finished at a convent in Paris. The brightness which her 
early years has shown was augmented by a thorough education. 



civ 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



In the roomy old house at Avondale Manor she passed some years. Here, 
in the midst of the wild and picturesque scenery of Wicklow and Wexford, she 
found much to nurture, not only her poetic temperament, but those national 
aspirations which have since distinguished the family. As romantic as any 
dreamy maiden could wish was the site of her home en the edge of the deep 
vale in which the Avon rushed on to meet the Avoca, which Moore has im- 
mortalized. 

Shortly after the foundation of the Irish People in Dublin, the organ of the 
Fenian Brotherhood, Fanny Parnell became a contributor to the poetic columns. 




Here, under the signature of "Alerta," she gave vent to her patriotic feelings. 
From the decline of the Fenian movement to the birth of the Land Agitation 
we find scarcely any literary work from her hand. Her lyre would only respond 
to one breeze nationality. A few years ago, when she first began to write the 
powerful "Land League Songs," her name was quite unknown. Before she 
had published half a dozen of those extraordinary poems, extraordinary for 
their magnetic and almost startling force, as well as rhythmical beauty, it was 
recognized by those who watched-for signs that the Land League had got that 
which crystallizes the efforts and aspirations of a popular movement a Poet. 
Every note she struck was true and strong and timely. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND, 



cv 






Her death was mourned by the whole Irish race. She died suddenly on the 
20th of July, 1882, at the Old Ironsides mansion, her mother's home, near Bor- 
dentown, N. J. She is buried in Mt. Auburn cemetery, near Boston, and her 
grave is decorated with flowers every year, on Memorial Day, by delegates from 
the Irish societies of Boston. (Poems, page 742.) 



THOMAS PARNELL. 

THOMAS PARNELL was born in Dublin in 1679, in which city he received his 
education and was finally elevated to the ministry in 1703. In 1705, then 
Archdeacon of Clogher, he married a lady noted for her beauty and general 
excellence of character. His annual excursions to England, where he spent 
months at a time, living luxuriously, rather diminished than advanced his 
fortune. 

When the Whigs were in power, he was the friend of Addison, Congreve and 
Steele; during the ascendancy of the Tories, his former friends were neglected, 




and Swift, Pope, Gay and Arbuthnot became his companions. The death of 
his wife, in 1712, proved a severe blow, from the effects of which he never 
rallied. To drown his misery he had recourse to stimulants, and his intemper- 
ance shortened his life. A collection of his poems was published by Pope. 
Although not a poet of the first rank, his poems merit considerable praise for 
their melodic sweetness, clearness of language, and generally pleasing style. 
He died July, 1717. The great National leader and agitator of Ireland, Charles 
Stewart Parnell, is a direct descendant of the poet; and his gifted sister, Fanny 
Parnell, inherited the poetic genius of her ancestor. (Poems, page 472.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, March 
12th, 1822. He was of Irish extraction. At an early age he entered an artist's 
studio in Cincinnati, and subsequently passed some time in New York and 




Boston, where he devoted himself to painting. In 1846, he removed to Philadel- 
phia. In 1850 he went to Italy, where he remained, with the exception of 
some brief intervals in America, until 1872. His poetical works were published 
in three volumes in 1866. Died in New York, May llth, 1872. (Poems, p. 880.) 




JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY is of Irish descent, as his name implies, and is one 
of the most popular American poets of the day. He was born in Greenfield, 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



cvii 



Indiana, in 1853. In early life he was a painter, but soon cast aside the brush 
for the pen. He first became known by his humorous poetical contributions to 
the journals and magazines in the western dialect, which won for him the title 
of " the Hoosier Poet. " Mr. Riley has published a volume of poems that has 
met with a ready sale. He is an accomplished lecturer, and an artist of merit. 
(Poems, page 911.) 



HON. W. E. EOBINSON. 

WILLIAM ERIGENA EOBINSON was born at Unagh, near Cookstown, Tyrone 
County, Ireland. He came to the United States in 1836, and entered Yale Col- 
lege the following year, graduating in 1841. In 1844, he became assistant editor 
of the New York Tribune, under Horace Greeley, and subsequently edited the 
Buffalo Express, Newark Mercury, and the People, New York. He was 




admitted to the bar in New York in 1854. He served many years in Congress, 
and introduced the measure asserting the right of man to expatriation, whereby 
the European governments were compelled to renounce the slavish doctrine 
"once a subject always a subject." Mr. Eobinson has been prominent in 
every movement in America, looking to the benefit of the Irish people. He 
resides at present in the city of Brooklyn. (Poem, page 901.) 



JAMES JEFFEEY EOCHE. 

JAMES JEFFREY EOCHE was born in Queens county, Ireland, May 31, 1847. 
His parents emigrated in that year to Prince Edward Island, where he spent his 



cvm 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 




youth, being educated in St. Dunstan's College in that province. He has lived 
in Boston since 1866, contributing to various periodicals occasionally until 1883, 
when he joined the editorial- staff of the Boston Pilot, with which he is still 
connected. (Poems, page 712.) 




O'DONOVAN EOSSA. 

JEREMIAH O'DONOVAN EOSSA, better known, perhaps, as a patriot and revo- 
lutionist than a poet, was born in Eosscarberry, county Cork, Ireland, in 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



cix 







September, 1S31. His life has been eventful. In 1858, he was arrested and 
imprisoned for organizing the Phoenix Society, which was the immediate fore- 
runner of the great Fenian revolutionary brotherhood. In 1865 he was arrested 
again, this time for Fenianism, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. He 
was, with many other Irish patriots, released after seven years' imprisonment, 
and banished out of Ireland for twenty years. He is editor of a paper called 
United Ireland, in New York. Nearly all his poems were written in English 
prisons; but his fine translations from the Gaelic have been recently made. 
(Poems, page 776.) 



REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL, S.J. 

REV. MATTHEW RUSSELL, S. J., was born in Newry, county of Armagh, Ire- 
land, in 1834. He made his studies in Maynooth College and afterward in 
France. He is at present the editor of the Irish Monthly Magazine. He has 




ablished three volumes of verse "Emmanuel," "Madona," and "Erin, 
Verses Irish and Catholic." Father Russell is a nephew of the late Charles Wil- 
liam Russell, for many years President of Maynooth College, and is a brother of 
Sir Charles Russell, the distinguished London lawyer. (Poems, page 1013.) 



REV. ABRAM J. RYAN. 

THE Rev. Abram J. Ryan, nationally known as "The Poet-Priest of the 
South," was a Virginian by birth. He died of an organic heart trouble, at 



ex 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Louisville, Ky., on April 22, ISSfi, in the 46th year of his age. Father Ryan was 
pre-eminently the poet of the Southern Confederacy. He occupied in that 
ephemeral nation the enviable position described by the " very wise man " of 
whom old Fletcher of Saltoun wrote to the Marquis of Montrose, "who be- 
lieved that if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care 
who should make the laws of a nation." Henry Timrod, who died all too soon, 
had written some stirring lyrics for the South, but Father Ryan, who had just 




been ordained in 1861, threw himself heart and soul into the support of the 
Confederacy and followed its fortunes from beginning to end. (Poems, page 736.) 
The Rev. Wm. D. Kelly, a brother priest and poet, wrote the following 
tender sonnet on Father Ryan's death: 

YOUR saddest tears, O April skies, drop down, 

And let the voices of your sobbing breeze, 

Sigh the most plaintive of their threnodies 
For him, -who, girt with sacerdotal gown, 
When war's wild tumult stirred each Southern town, 

And filled the land with its discordancies, 

Sang high above them all such melodies 
Their very sweetness won the South renown: 
Poet ! God rest thee, now thy songs are sung; 

Father ! heaven gain thee, now thy toil is o'er; 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 

Whoever listened to thy tuneful tongue 

Telling the mystic secrets of its lore, 
Trusts that thy voice, celestial choirs among, 

Hymns the new song of love forevermore. 



JOHN SAVAGE. 



cxi 



JOHN SAVAGE, LL.D., a talented poet and miscellaneous writer, was born 
in Dublin, December 13, 1828. Receiving the advantages of a good education, 
and giving early evidences of artistic taste, he became a student at the Art 
School of the Royal Dublin Society. He was a prime actor in the Insurrection 
of '48, having edited a journal in the interest of the Young Ireland party, also 
assisting in arming the peasantry. For this interest, he was obliged to leave 
the country, and, escaping to New York, he contributed to a number of leading 
periodicals, and was connected with newspapers in New York, Washington and 
New Orleans. He edited the Manhattan, a monthly of much literary merit. 




An ardent supporter of the Union cause during the war of the Rebellion he 
wrote many popular war-songs. His publications include, besides, several vol- 
umes of poems, dramas, sketches and biographies. (Poems, page 802.) 



exii BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 

MICHAEL SCANLAN. 

MICHAEL SCANLAN was born in Castlemahon, county of Limerick, Ireland, 
in November, 1836, and came to the United States in 1849. His family settled 
in Chicago, where, in subsequent years, the Scanlan Brothers were well-known 
business men. The subject of this sketch, in very early years, took an active 
part in all movements looking toward the freedom of Ireland. Indeed Ireland 
has been the " dream and adoration " of his life. He was a leading spirit in the 
Fenian movement and soon became its American Laureate. " The Fenian Men," 
a stirring war chant, was the Marseillaise of the movement, sung to the tune of 
"O'Donnell Abu." Many a poor fellow was sent to jail in Ireland, between 
1866 and 1868 for having a copy of even a verse of it in his possession. In 1867 




Mr. Scanlan, together with a few others, "who thought ahead of their day," 
established The Irish Republic, a journal whose general motto was " Liberty ; 
her friends our friends, her enemies our enemies," and whose special motto was 
' The shortest road to the freedom of Ireland." Mr. Scanlan was editor of the 
Irish Republic which was first published in Chicago, where it was transferred 
to New York, and thence to Washington, D. C., where it ended its " brief and 
brilliant career," in 1873. In 1874 Mr. Scanlan was appointed to a clerkship in 
the Department of State, where he is still engaged in statistical work. He is a 
writer of strong nervous prose, and has a rare gift of humor, which, however, 
he has seldom used since he wrote the once-famous Dionysius O'Blake papers 
for the Irish Republic. (Poems, page 954.) 

JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 

JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA was born in the city of Cork, Ireland, in the year 1802. 
He received a thorough classical education, and when he was buflittle more than 




RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. cxiii 

twenty years of age, he proceeded to London, where he wrote his poems of ' ; Ru 
dreki," and won immediate recognition. In 1827 he came to the United States, 
where he continued in his profession of journalism. He died in New York City 
in 1845. His son, Judge George Shea, published a volume of his poems in 
1846, (Poems, page 855.) 



KICHAED BEINSLEY SHERIDAN. 

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, the renowned wit, orator and dramatist, was 
iorn in Duhlin, October 31, 1751. He was the son of Mr. Thomas Sheridan, the 
tragedian, and grandson of Doctor Sheridan, the friend and correspondent of 
Swift. An impulsive marriage, made before completing his law studies, com- 
pelled him to have recourse to literature as a means of support. In his dramatic 
productions he achieved wonderful success, writing the ever-popular comedies, 
" The Rivals," and " The School for Scandal," the farce " The Critic," and the 
opera "The Duenna." He became one of the proprietors of the Drury Lane 
Theatre in 1776. But the crowning glory of his life, was his Parliamentary 
career of thirty -two years. Here his unrivalled eloquence, and keen irony, found 
an ample field for their development, and the famous statesmen and orators, 
Burke, Pitt and Fox, had to look well to their laurels. His speech on the im- 
peachment of Warren Hastings was among his most brilliant orations. The 
burning of the Drury Lane Theatre and his extravagant habits, plunged him 
deeply in debt, and filled the latter days of his life with sorrow and disappoint- 
ment. He died July 7th, 1816. (Poems, page 422.) 



JOHN STERLING. 

JOHN STERLING was a native of Waterford, born in 1806. His family settled 
in London in 1824, where he entered Trinity College. He did not take his de- 
gree. He was an intimate friend of Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Carlyle. He 
died in 1844. Archdeacon Hare published his works, and Carlyle -wrote his 
biography. (Poems, page 668.) 



A. M. SULLIVAN. 

ALEXANDER MARTIN SULLIVAN was born in the county of Cork, Ireland, in 
1826. Having received a good education, he was engaged on the staff of the 
Dublin Nation, by its then proprietor, Charles Gavan Duffy. He afterward be- 
came sole proprietor of the paper, which he conducted with eminent ability for 
several years. He was prosecuted and imprisoned for the publication of certain 
articles in the Nation, apropos of the " Manchester Martyrs " Allen, Larkin 



cxiv BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 'OP THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

and O'Brien. A few years before his death, he joined the English bar, and re- 
moved to London. Mr. Sullivan also founded Young Ireland, and The Weekly 




News, two weekly publications. He is the author of a volume of speeches and 
lectures, and two excellent historical works" The Story of Ireland " and " New 
Ireland." (Poem, page 1021.) 

MKS. MARGARET F. SULLIVAN. 

MRS. MARGARET F. SULLIVAN is the wife of Mr. Alexander Sullivan of 
Chicago, Ex-President of the Irish-American Land League. She is a distin- 
guished writer and is acknowledged as the ablest woman journalist America has 
produced. Her prose writings are marked by great ability, and the poems from 
her pen make the reader regret that they are so few. She is the author f 
"Ireland of To-Day," one of the most valuable works published on modern 
Ireland. (Poems, page 908.) 

T. D. SULLIVAN. 

TIMOTHY DANIEL SULLIVAN was born in Bantry, county of Cork, Ireland, 
in the year 1827. He is a brother of the late H. M. Sullivan. Mr. Sullivan is 
editor and proprietor of the Dublin Nation, Weekly News, and Young Ireland. 
He has been a member of Parliament for many years, and recently completed 




DEAN SWIFT. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



CSV 



his second term of office as Lord Mayor of Dublin. He is the author of many 
works on national subjects, and has published two or three volumes of poems 




that have attained wide popularity. He is an ardent and consistent patriot, and 
is held in high esteem by his fellow-countrymen everywhere. (Poems, page 
917.) 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 

JONATHAN SWIFT, a most celebrated wit and satirist, was bom in Dublin, 
1667. He was sent to school in Kilkenny and later to Trinity College, Dublin. 
In 1688 he became secretaiy of Sir William Temple, a connection of Mrs. Swift 
by marriage, in whose service he remained six years. The position in this 
family was very humiliating to Swift's pride, although he acquired much bene- 
fit from his opportunities of increasing knowledge, and at the death of Sir 
Wilh'am Temple, Swift edited his posthumous works. Failing to obtain a 
bishopric (which was his most earnest ambition), he was forced to be content 
as Dean of St. Patrick's, the duties of which office he assumed in 1713. 

During his frequent visits to England, he was courted and enjoyed by the 
most illustrious minds of his day. He formed what was called the Scribblers' 



cxvi 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 



Club, with Pope, Gay and Arbuthnot. His first important work " The Tale of 
a Tub," was published anonymously in 1704, " The Battle of the Books " soon 
followed. In 1724, by the anonymous " Drapier Letters " published in a Dublin 
newspaper, he defended the rights of the Irish people with such warmth and 
skill that he became universally popular. " Gulliver's Travels " appeared in 
1726. His miscellaneous writings are chiefly religious and political pamphlets. 
During his later years he suffered from deafness and mental infirmities; in 1741 
he passed into a condition of idiocy, from which death released him in 1745. 
In his will he made provision for the building of a hospital for the insane. 
(Poems, page 219.) 




KATHARINE TYNAN. 

KATHARINE TYNAN was born at Clondalkin, county Dublin, Ireland, in the 
latter part of 1861. She began her literary career in her twentieth year, win- 
ning almost immediate recognition. She has contributed to the London Month, 
Merry England, The Athenceum, and other leading publications. Her first vol- 
ume, " Louise de la Valliere and other poems," appeared in 1885, was well re- 
ceived and went into a second edition in a few months. (Poems, page 721.) 

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER. 

JOHN FRANCIS WALLER was born in the city of Limerick in the year 1810. 
He graduated from Trinity College, Dublin, studied law, and was for a time 



I 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. cxvii 

editor of the Dublin University Magazine. He has lived for many years past in 
England. Most of his latter-day contributions in verse are written for religious 
niblications, and are more or less didactic in spirit. (Poems, page 912.) 



EDWARD WALSH. 






EDWARD WALSH was born in Londonderry in the year 1805, and died in 
Cork on 6th August, 1850, in the forty-fifth year of his age. His father, who 
was a small farmer in the county of Cork, eloped with a young lady much above 
his own position in life. Shortly after marriage his difficulties increased, and 
to avoid them, he enlisted in the militia, and was quartered in Londonderry, 
where his son was born. Our author having received a good education, in early 
life became a private tutor. Some time after he taught school in Millstreet, 
county Cork, from which he removed in 1837, and went to teach in Toureen, 
where he first began to write for the Magazines. After some time he went up 
to Dublin, where he was elected schoolmaster to the convict station at Spike 
Island. In a year or two he left this place and became teacher at the Work- 
house in Cork, where he remained till his death. Two volumes of his poetical 
translations from the Irish have been published. He was a proficient in the 
fairy and legendary lore of the country. (Poems, page 699.) 

t 

JOHN WALSH. 

JOHN WALSH, the sweet Munster singer who in this generation shared with 
his friend and compatriot, Charles J. Kickham, the proud distinction of being 
e "Poet of the People," was the author of hundreds of songs and ballads, 
any of distinguished poetic merit, and all thoroughly Irish and national, and 
.ost " racy of the soil." 

He was born in the immediate vicinity of Cappoquin, county of Waterford, 
educated in the National school of that town and at the Seminary of Mount 
'ellerey. He graduated at the Normal school in Dublin, and was appointed a 
ational-school-teacher in his native town, where he taught for several years. 
He subsequently taught the National school of Cashel Co., Tipperary, until his 
death, in February, 1881. He was buried on the " Eock of Cashel," close by the 
x>ot of the ancient " Eound Tower." He was about forty years at the time of 
is death. He left a widow and six children. His wife's maiden name was 
ulia Cavanagh, and to her he addressed many exquisite love songs. 
His poems have never been collected, and probably never can be, for owms* 
to their being written under various noms de plume for several National pub- 
lications, his claims to their authorship are unknown save to his intimate as- 
sociates. (Poems, page 971.) 

MICHAEL J. WALSH. 

MICHAEL J. WALSH was born in 1833, at Listowel, county Kerry, Ireland. 
While yet a mere boy, he left Ireland for the Western World. For the past 




CZV111 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 




forty years he has resided in New York. Though engaged in a commercial 
avocation he has found time to contribute both in prose and poetry to many of 
the Irish- American periodicals and journals. (Poems, page 945.) 




EICHARD HENRY WILDE. 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE was born in Dublin, Ireland, Sept. 24th, 1789, and died 
in New Orleans, Sept. 10th, 1847. He was Attorney-General of the State of 
Georgia, and also served in Congress for many years. He published a work on 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND, cxir 

', in two volumes in 1842, which contains a number of original translations 
poems of that author. He also wrote a poem entitled "Hesprina," 
hich was published by his son in 1867. During the last three years of his life, 
Mr. Wilde was professor of common law in the University of Louisiana, 
oem, page 861.) 



LADY WILDE ("SPERANZA.") 

LADY WILDE, the famous "Speranza," of the old Dublin Nation, is the 
mother of the poet and aesthete, Oscar Wilde, and the widow of the late eminent 
physician and archaeologist, Sir William Wilde, of Dublin. In the stormy days 

"Young Ireland," from 1846 to 1848, the poems of "Speranza," next to 







lose of Thomas Davis, were the inspiration of the National movement. Lady 
Wilde lives in London, where she is the centre of a distinguished literary and 
artistic circle. (Poems, page 762.) 



OSCAR WILDE. 



OSCAR 0. F. WILDE is the second son of " Speranza," Lady Wilde, and was 
born in Dublin in the year 1855. He is the author of a volume of poems which 



ex i 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OP THE POETS OP IRELAND. 



show that he inherits much of his mother's genius. He recently obtained 
notoriety by the identification of his name with the aesthetic craze in London. 




Be visited the United States a few years a.go, and made a successful lecture tour 
through the country. He resides in London, England. (Poems, page 853.) 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 

RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS, "Shamrock" of the Nation newspaper, was 
born in county of Tipperary, Oct. 8th, 1822. He was educated at Carlow College, 
and came to Dublin to study medicine. His first contribution to the Nation was 
as early as 1843, and at once attracted the attention of Mr. Duffy, then editor. 
He joined the '48 movement, and in conjunction with his friend, Kevin Izod 
O'Doherty, established the Irish Tribune paper. After the issue of a few num- 
bers, it was seized and the editors prosecuted by the government. On a third trial 
O'Doherty was convicted and transported to Australia, and Williams was ac- 
quitted. He then completed his medical studies at Edinburgh, and emigrated to 
America in 185 1. He was for a time professor in Spring Hill College, Mobile, Ala. 
He died of consumption at Thibodeaux, Louisiana, July, 1862, aged 39. As a poet 
he excelled in humorous pieces, but in his later years his writings turned toward 
spiritual subjects. The Irish soldiers of a New Hampshire regiment being en- 
camped in the neighborhood of Thibodeaux, during the war, sought out the 
grave of the poet, and erected over it a handsome marble monument, with a 
fitting inscription. The poetical works of Williams have been edited and pub- 
lished by T. D. Sullivan, of Dublin. (Poems, page 862.) 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OP IRELAND. 



crzi 



EEV. CHARLES WOLFE. 

REV. CHARLES WOLFE was born at Dublin in 1791, and was educated at 
rinity College. He became a curate at Castle Caulfield. He died of con- 
sumption in 1823. He was only a boy when he wrote one of the most perfect 
and most celebrated odes in the English language, "The Burial of Sir John 
loore." (Poems, page 672.) 




THE 



POETRY AND SONG 



OF 



IRELAND. 



POEMS OP THOMAS MOORE. 

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION TO THE IRISH MELODIES. 



IT has often been remarked, and oftener felt, that our music is the truest of all com- 
tients upon our history. The tone of defiance, succeeded by the languor of despondency 
-u burst of turbulence (lying away into softness the sorrows of one moment lost in the 
levity of the next and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness, which is naturally 
produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off or forget the wrongs which 
lie upon it. Such are the features of our history and character, which we find strongly 
and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are many airs which, I think, it is difficult 
to listen to without recalling some period or event to which their expression seems pecu- 
liarly applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, yet shaded here and 
there by a mournful recollection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose * 
marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles and his 
ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of 
their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in 
which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or 
to quit forever the land of their birth, (like the bird that abandons the, nest which human 
touch has violated) ; and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the exile, mingling 
regret for the ties he leaves at home, with sanguine expectations of the honors that await 
him abroad such honors as were won on the field of Fontenoy, where the valor of Irish 
Catholics turned the fortune of the day in favor of the French, and extorted from George II. 
that memorable exclamation, " Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such subjects ! " 

Though much has been said of the antiquity of our music, it is certain that our finest 
and most popular airs are modern; and perhaps we may look no further than the last dis- 
graceful century for the origin of most of those wild and melancholy strains which were at 
once the offspring and solace of grief, and which were applied to the mind as music was 
formerly to the body, "decantare loca dolentia." Mr. Pinkerton is of opinion tliat none 
of the Scotch popular airs are as old as the middle of the sixteenth century; and though 
musical antiquaries refer us for some of our melodies to so early a period as the fifth cen- 
tury, I am persuaded that there are few of a civilized description (and by this I mean to 
exclude all the savage ceanans, cries,f etc.) which can claim quite so ancient a date as 
Mr. Pinkerton allows to the Scotch. But music is not the only subject upon which our 
taste for antiquity is rather unreasonably indulged; and, however heretical it may be to 
dissent from these romantic speculations, I cannot help thinking that it is possible to love 
our country very zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honor and happiness, 



* There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these Irish auxiliaries in The Complete History of the Wars 
i/i Krotland tinder Montrose, (1660.) Clarendon owns that the Marquisof Montrose was indebted for much of his miraculous 
success to this small band of Irish heroes under Macdonnell. 

t Of which some genuine specimens may be found at the end of Mr. Walker's worn upon the Irish Bards. Mr. Bun- 
ting has disfigured his last splendid volume by too many of those barbarous rhapsodies. 



o 8 POEMS OF THOMAS MOOIIK 

without believing that Irish was the language spoken in Paradise * that our ancestors 
were kind enough to take the trouble of polishing the Greeks f or that Abaris, the Hyper- 
borean, was a native of the nortli of Ireland. J 

By some of these archaeologists it has been imagined that the Irish were early ac- 
quainted with the counter point, and they endeavor to support this conjecture by a well- 
known passage in Giraldus, where he dilates with such elaborate praise upon the beauties 
of our national minstrelsy. But the terms of this eulogy are too vague, too deficient in 
technical accuracy, to prove that even Giraldus himself knew anything of the artifice of 
counterpoint. There are many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers which might 
be cited with much more plausibility to prove that they understood the arrangement of 
music in parts; || yet I believe it is conceded in general by the learned, that however grand 
and pathetic the melody of the ancients may have been, it was reserved for the ingenuity 
of modern science to transmit the "light of song" through the variegating prism of 
harmony. 

Indeed the irregular scale of the early Irish (in which, as in the music of Scotland, 
the interval of the fourth was wanting) ** must have furnished bnt wild and refractory 
subjects to the harmonist. It was only when the invention of Guido began to be known, 
and the powers of the harp f f were enlarged by additional strings, that our melodies took 
the sweet character which interests us at present; and while the Scotch persevered in the 
old mutilation of the scale, JJ our music became gradually more amenable to the laws of 
harmony and counterpoint. 

In profiting, however, by the improvements of the moderns, our style still kept its 

* See advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic Society Dublin. 

t O'Halloran, vol. i., parti., chap. vi. 

tld. ib., chap. vii. 

| II is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood the diesis, or enharmonic interval. The Greeks seem 
to have formed their ears to this delicate gradation of sound ; and, whatever difficulties or objections may lie in the way of 
its practical use, we must agree with Mersenne, (Preludes de V Harmonic, quest. 7,) that the theory of music would be im- 
perfect without it; and, even in practice, as Tosi, among others, very justly remarks, (Observations on Florid ;Son0,chap.i., 
16,) there is no good performer on the violin who does not make a sensible difference between D sharp and E flat, though, 
from the imperfection of the instrument, they are the same notes upon the piano-forte. The effect of modulation by en- 
harmonic transitions is also very striking and beautiful. 

\ The words iroiiciAirt and erepo^wna, in a passage of Plato, and some expressions of Cicero, in fragment, lib. ii., D 
Republ., induced the Abbe Fraguier to maintain that theancients had a knowledge of counterpoint. M. Burette, however, 
has answered him, I think, satisfactorily, ( 4l Examen d'un Passage de Platon," in the third volume of Histoire de V Acad.) 
M. Huet is of opinion (Pensfes Diverges) that what Cicero says of the music of the spheres, in his dream of Scipio, is suffic- 
ient to prove an acquaintance with harmony ; but one of the strongest passages which I recollect in favor of the supposi- 
tion occurs in the Treatise, attributed to Aristotle. npi Ko<r/iou Mouairi) t oei 5 a^a <u /3ap<t<, . T. \. 

** Another lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency of what composers call consecutive fifths; but this is an ir- 
regularity which can hardly be avoided by persons not very conversant with the rules of composition ; indeed, if I may 
venture to cite my own wild attempts in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually committing, and which has 
sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear that I have surrendered it to the critic with considerable reluctance. May there 
not be a little pedantry in adhering too rigidly to this rule? I have been told that there are instances in Haydn of an un- 
disguised succession of fifths ; and Mr. Shield, in his Introduction to Harmony, seems to intimate that Handel has been 
sometimes guilty of the same irregularity. 

, ++ A singular oversight occurs in an Essay on the Irish Harp by Mr. Beauford, which is inserted in the Appendix to 
Waiter's Historical Memoirs. " The Irish," says he, " according to Bromton, in the reign of Henry II., had two kinds 
of harps, ' Hibernici t amen in duobus music! generis instruments, quamvis prsecipitem et velocem, suavem tamen et jucun- 
dam,' the one greatly bold and quick, the other soft and pleasing." How a man of Mr. Beauford 's learning could so mistake 
the meaning and mutilate the grammatical construction of this extract is unaccountable. The following is the passage as 
I find it entire in Bromton, and it requires but little Latin to perceive the injustice which has been done to the words of the 
old chronicler : " Et cum Scotia, In i jus terrse filia, utatur lyri, tympano et choro, ac Wallia cithara, tubis et chora Hiber- 
nici tamen in duobus musici generis instrumentis, quamvis prcecipi tern et velocem, suavem tamen et jucundam. crispatis 
modulis et intricatis notulis, efflciunt harmoniam,'" (Hist. Anglic. Script., p. 1075.) I should not have thought this error 
, worth remarking, but that the compiler of the Dissertation on the Harp, prefixed to Mr. Bunting's last work, has adopted 
it implicitly. 

8 The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are strong traits of difference between their melodies and 
ours. They had formerly the same passion for robbing us of our saints, and the learned Dempster was, for this offence 
called "The Saint-stealer." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 29 

originality sacred from their refinements; and though Carolan had frequent opportunities 
of hearing the works of Geminiani and other masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing 
his native simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, or affectation of their science. 
In that curious composition, indeed, called his Concerto, it is evident that he labored to 
imitate Corelli; and this union of manners so very dissimilar produces the same kind of 
uneasy sensation which is felt at a mixture of different styles of architecture. In general, 
however, the artless flow of our music has preserved itself free from all tinge of foreign 
innovation,* and the chief corruptions of which we have to complain arise from the un- 
skilful performance of our own itinerant musicians, from whom, too frequently, the airs are 
noted down, encumbered by their tasteless decorations, and responsible for all their ignorant 
anomalies. Though it be sometimes impossible to trace the original strain, yet in most 
of them, "auri per ramos aura rel'ulget,"f the pnre gold of the melody shines through the 
ungraceful foliage which surrounds it; and the most delicate and difficult duty of a com- 
piler is to endeavor, as much as possible, by retrenching these inelegant superfluities, and 
collating the various methods of playing or singing each air, to restore the regularity of 
its form, and the chaste simplicity of its character. 

I must again observe that, in doubting the antiquity of our music, my skepticism 
extends but to those polished specimens of the art which it is difficult to conceive anterior 
to the dawn of modern improvement; and that I would by no means invalidate the claims 
of Ireland to as early a rank in the annals of minstrelsy as the most zealous antiquary may 
be inclined to allow her. In addition, indeed, to the power which music must always have 
possessed over the minds of a people so ardent and susceptible, the stimulus of persecution 
w;is not wanting to quicken our taste into enthusiasm; the charms of song were ennobled 
with the glories of martyrdom, and the acts against minstrels in the reigns of Henry VIII. 
and Elizabeth were as successful, I doubt not, in making my countrymen musicians as the 
penal laws have been in keeping them Catholics. 

With respect to the verses which I have written for these melodies, as they are in- 
tended rather to be sung than read, I can answer for their sound with somewhat more 
confidence than their sense; yet it would be affectation to deny that I have given much 
attention to the task, and that it is not through want of zeal or industry if I unfortunately 
disgrace the sweet airs of my country by poetry altogether unworthy of their taste, their 
energy, and their tenderness. 

Though the humble nature of my contributions to this work may exempt them from 
the rigors of literary criticism, it was not to be expected that those touches of political 
feeling, those tones of national complaint, in which the poetry sometimes sympathizes with 
the music, would be suffered to pass without censure or alarm. It has been accordingly 
said that the tendency of this publication is mischievous, J and that I have chosen these airs 
but as a vehicle of dangerous politics as fair and precious vessels (to borrow an image of 
St. Augustine) from which the wine of error might be administered. To those who 
identify nationality with treason, and who see in every effort for Ireland a system of hos- 
tility toward England to those too, who, nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed 
by the faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness, like that 

* Among other false refinements of the art, our music (with the exception, perhaps, of the air called " Mamma, Mamma," 
and one or two more of the same ludicrous description) has avoided that puerile mimicry of natural noises, motions, &c., 
which disgraces so often the works of even the great Handel himself. D'AIembert ought to have had better taste than to 
become the patron of this imitative affectation, (Discours Preliminaire de r Encyclopedic.) The reader may find some 
good remarks on the subject in Avison upon Musical Expression ; a work which, though under the name of Avison, was 
written, it is said, by Dr. Brown. 

t Virgil, JEneid, lib. 6, v. 804. 

$ See Letters, under the signatures of ' Timeeus," &c., in the Morning Post, Pilot, and other papers. 



30 POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Demophon of old who, when the sun shone upon him shivered ! * to such men I shall not 
deign to apologize for the warmth of any political sentiment which may occur in the course 
of these pages. But as there are many among the more wise and tolerant who, with feel- 
ing enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all 
the danger of not redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree bold 
or inflammatory should be avoided in a publication of this popular description I beg of 
these respected persons to believe that there is no one who deprecates more sincerely than 
I do any appeal to the passions of an ignorant and angry multitude; but that it is not 
through that gross and inflammable region of society a work of this nature could ever have 
been intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers it is found 
upon the piano-fortes of the rich and the educated of those who can afford to have their 
national zeal a little stimulated without exciting much dread of the excesses into which it 
may hurry them; and of many whose nerves may be now and then alarmed with advan- 
tage, as much more is to be gained by their fears than could ever be expected from their 
justice. 

Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has been hitherto made to the 
poetical part of this work, allow me to add a few words in defence of my ingenious 
coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of 
the airs by the chromatic richness of his symphonies and the elaborate variety of his har- 
monies. We might cite the example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported through 
all the mazes of musical science in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies; but 
it appears to me that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which 
it would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. Through 
many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as 
peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country's music: and, far from agreeing with 
those critics who think that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs which they 
introduce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illuminated initials of old 
manuscripts which are of the same character with the writing which follows, though more 
highly colored and more curiously ornamented. 

In those airs which are arranged for voices, his skill has particularly distinguished 
itself, and, though it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the 
language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favorite strain has been dismissed as 
having lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it returns in a harmonized shape with new 
claims upon our interest and attention; and to those who study the delicate artifices of 
composition, the construction of the inner parts of these pieces must afford, I think, con- 
siderable satisfaction. Every voice has an air to itself, a flowing succession of notes, 
which might be heard with pleasure independent of the rest, so artfully has the harmonist 
(if I may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distributing an equal portion of its sweet- 
ness to every part. 

* " This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (rpair i'ouoios) to Alexander the Oreat " Sext Emair Purrh. 
Hypoth., lib. i. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. 

Go where glory waits thee, 
But while fame elates thee, 

Oh! still remember me. 
When the praise them meetest 
To thine ear is sweetest, 

Oh! then remember me. 
Other arms may press thee, 
Dearer friends caress thee, 
All the joys that bless thee, 

Sweeter far may be; 
But when friends are nearest, 
And when joys are dearest, 

Oh! then remember me. 

When at eve thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest, 

Oh! then remember me. 
Think, when home returning, 
Bright we've seen it burning, 

Oh! thus remember me. 
Oft as summer closes, 
On its lingering roses, 

Once so loved by thee, 
Think of her who wove them, 
Her who made thee love them, 

Oh! then remember me. 

When, around thee dying, 
Autumn leaves are lying, 

Oh! then remember me. 
And, at night, when gazing 
On the gay hearth blazing, 

Oh! still remember me, 
Then should music, stealing 
All the soul of feeling, 
To thy heart appealing, 

Draw one tear from thee; 
Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee 

Oh! then remember me. 



WAR SONG. 

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE. 1 

REMEMBER the glories of Brien the Brave. 

Though the days of the hero are o'er; 
Though lost to Mononia,' and cold in the 

grave, 

He returns to Kinkora 3 no more! 
That star of the field, which so often has 

pour'd 

Its beam on the battle, is set; 
But enough of its glory remains on each 

sword 
To light us to glory yet! 

Mononia! when nature embellish'd the tint 

Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, 
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should 

print 

The footstep of slavery there ? 
No, freedom! whose smile we shall never 

resign, 
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, 

'Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy 

shrine, 
Than to sleep but a moment in chains! 



Forget not our wounded companions 

stood 4 
In the day of distress by our side; 



1 Brien Bororabe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was 
killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 
eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty- 
five engagements . 

' Munster. * The palace of Brien. 

4 This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the 
Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were inter- 
rupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf by Fitzpat- 
rick,Prince of Ossory . The wounded men entreated that they 
might be allowed to fight with the rest. "Let stakes," they 
said, "be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to 
and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank 
by the side of a sound man." "Between seven and eight hun- 
dred wounded men," adds O'Halloran, pale, emaciated, and 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



While the moss of the valley grew red wit] 

their blood, 

They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died 
The sun that now blesses our arms with hi 

light, 

Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ! 
Oh let him not blush, when he leaves us to- 
night, 
To find that they fell there in vain ! 



ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE 
IN THINE EYES. 

ERIN ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes 
Blend, like the rainbow that hangs in thy 

skies ! 

Shining through sorrow's stream, 
Saddening through pleasure's beam, 
Thy sons, with doubtful gleam, 
Weep while they rise ! 

Erin ! thy silent tear never shall cease, 
Erin ! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, 

Till, like the rainbow's light, 

Thy various tints unite, 

And form, in Heaven's sight, 
One arch of peace ! 



OH BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 

OH breathe not his name, let it sleep in the 

shade, 

Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid; 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we 

shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er 

his head! 

But the night-dew that falls, though in 

silence it weeps, 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where 

he sleeps, 



supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the fore- 
most of the troops never was such another sight exhib- 
ited." History of Ireland, Book xii., Chap. I. 



And the tear that we shed, though in secsret 
it rolls, \ 

Shall long keep his memory green in out" 
souls. 



WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE. 

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the 

name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh say wilt thou weep, when they darken 

the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resign'd ? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may con- 
demn, 

Thy tears shall efface their decree; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to 

them, 
I have been but too faithful to thee ! 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest 

love; 

Every thought of my reason was thine : 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine ! 
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who 

shall live 

The days of thy glory to see; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven 

can give 
Is the pride of thus dying for thee! 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
TARA'S HALLS. 

THE harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 

hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise, 

Now feel that pulse no more ! 

o more to chiefs and ladies bright 
The harp of Tara swells; 
The chord alone that breaks at night, 
Its tale of ruin tells. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



33 






Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
h when some heart indiguant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 



OH THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE 
ALWAYS AS LIGHT. 

OH think not my spirits are always as light 
And as free from a pang as they seem to 

you now ; 
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of 

to-night 
Will return with to-morrow to brighten 

my brow. 
No, life is a waste of wearisome hours 

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment 

adorns ; 
And the heart that is soonest awake to the 

flowers 
Is always the first to be touch'd by the 

thorns ! 
But send round the bowl, and be happy a 

while ; 

May we never meet worse in our pilgrim- 
age here 
ban the tear that enjoyment can gild with 

a smile, 

And the smile that compassion can turn to 
a tear ! 

e thread of our life would be dark, Heaven 

knows ! 
If it were not with friendship and love 

intertwined ; 
And I care not how soon I may sink to 

repose, 
When these blessings shall cease to be 

dear to my mind ! 
>ut they who have loved the fondest, the 

purest, 
Too often have wept o'er the dream they 

believed ; 

And the heart that has slumber'd in friend- 
ship securest, 

Is happy indeed, if 'twas never deceived. 
But send round the bowl, while a relic of 
truth 




Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall 

be mine 
That the sunshine of love may illumine out 

youth, 
And the moonlight of friendship console 

our decline. 



FLY NOT YET. 

FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour 
When pleasure, like the midnight flower 
That scorns the eye of vulgar light, 
Begins to bloom for sons of night, 

And maids who love the moon ! 
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade 
That beauty and the moon were made ; 
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing 
Set the tides and goblets flowing. 

Oh ! stay, Oh ! stay, 
Joy so seldom weaves a chain 
Like this to-night, that oh ! 'tis pain 

To break its link so soon. 

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd 

In times of old through Aminon's shade,' 

Though icy cold by day it ran, 

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began 

To burn when night was near; 
And thus should woman's heart and looki 
At noon be cold as winter brooks, 
Nor kindle till the night, returning, 
Brings their genial hour for burning. 

Oh ! stay, Oh ! stay, 
When did morning ever break, 
And find such beaming eyes awake 

As those that sparkle here ! 



THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF 
ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE. 

THOUGH the last glimpse of Erin with sor- 
row I see, 

Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ; 

In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, 

And thine eyes make my climate wherever 
we roam. 



1 Soils FODB. near the Temple of Ammon. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky 

shore, 
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us 

no more, 
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the 

rough wind 
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning 

behind. 

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful 

it wreathes, 
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it 

breathes ; 
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will 

tear 
One chord from that harp, or one lock from 

that hair. 1 



'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, 

were near, 
Who made every dear scene of enchantment 

more dear, 
And who felt how the best charms of nature 

improve, 
When we see them reflected from looks that 

we love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 
In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love 

best, 
Where the storms that we feel in this cold 

world should cease, 
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled 

in peace I 



THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 1 

THEEE is not in the wide world a valley so 

sweet 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright 

waters meet 1* 
Oh J the last rays of feeling and life must 

depart 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from 

my heart. 

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the 

scene 

Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
Oh ! no it was something more exquisite 

still. 



1 In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry YIH 
an Act .was made rejecting the habits, and dress in general! 
of the Irish, whereby all persona were restrained from beine 
shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing gWte, or 
corttn, (long locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip 
called crom^. On this occasion a song was written by one 

fa h J *" W8h **** is made to & ">?"- 
f^Tw ,, / e " Ulin (0r the y nUl wlth " flowing 
ocks) to all strangers, (by which the English were meant ) or 
those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has 
rcacned us, and is universally admired.- Walker's Historical 

%". ? f ?" *"* P - m Mr " Walker lDf > 2 
hat, about the same period, there were some harsh measures 
taksn against the Irish minstrels. 

" The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that bean- 
Ulul scenery which lies between Kathdrnm and Arklow to 
toe county of Wicklow, and these lines were 8 uggetedb'y a 
visit to th,c romantic spot in the summerof the year 1807 
' The rivers Avon and Avoco. 



RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS 
SHE WORE. 4 

RICH and rare were the gems she wore, 
And a bright gold ring on her wand she 

bore; 

But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. 

" Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray, 

So lone and lovely, through this bleak way ? 

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, 

As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?" 

" Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, 

No son of Erin will offer me harm 

For though they love women and golden store, 
Sir Knight! they love honor and virtu* 
more !" 

On she went, and her maiden smile 
In safety lighted her round the Green Isla. 
And blest forever is she who relied 
Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride ' 



This ballad is founded upon the following inecdou.:- 
" The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtu*, 
and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his ex- 
:ellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed 
that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with Jewels and a 
costly dress, undertook a Journey alone, from one end of the 
kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the 
top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such 
.n impression had the laws and government of this monarch 
made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was 
made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of ln-r clothes at 
Jewels."- Warner's History of Ireland, vol. book x 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKK 



35 



I A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE 
WATERS MAY GLOW, 
a beam o'er the face of the waters may 
glow, 
rile the tide runs in darkness and coldness 

below, 
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm 

sunny smile, 

Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly 
the while. 

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that 

throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our 

woes, 
To which life nothing darker or brighter can 

bring, 
which joy has no balm and affliction no 

sting ! 




this thought in the midst of enjoyment 

will stay, 
a dead leafless branch in the summer's 

bright ray ; 
The beams of the warm sun play round it in 



vain. 



It may smile in his light, but it blooms not 
again ! 



ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. 

BT. SENANUS. 

" OH ! haste and leave this sacred isle, 
Unholy bark, ere morning smile : 
}> or on thy deck, though dark it be, 

A female form I see ; 
And I have sworn this sainted sod 
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod I" 

THE LADY. 

" father, send not hence my bark, 
Through wintry winds and billows dark ; 
I come with humble heart to share 

Thy morn and evening prayer ; 
Nor mine the feet, O holy saint, 
The brightness of thy sod to taint." 



The lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd ; 
The winds blew fresh, the bark returu'd. 
But legends hint, that had the maid 

Till morning's light delay'd, 
And given the saint one rosy smile, 
She ne'er had left his lonely islo. 



HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. 

How dear to me the hour when daylight diet, 
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, 

For then sweet dreams of other days arise, 
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to 
thee. 

And as I watch the line of light that plays 
Along the smooth wave toward the burn- 
ing west, 

I long to tread that golden path of rays, 
And think 'twould lead to some bright islf 
of rest ! 



TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. 

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK. 

TAKE back the virgin page, 

White and unwritten still ; 
Some hand more calm and sage 

The leaf must fill. 
Thoughts come, as pure as light, 

Pure as even you require ; 
But oh ! each word I write, 

Love turns to fire. 

Yet let me keep the book ; 

Oft shall my heart renew, 
When on its leaves I look, 

Dear thoughts of you ! 
Like you, 'tis fair and bright ; 

Like you, too bright and fair 
To let wild passion write 

One wrong wish there ! 

Haply, when from those eyes 
Far, far away I roam, 






36 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Should calmer thoughts 'arise 

Toward you and home ; 
Fancy may trace some line, 

Worthy those eyes to meet, 
Thoughts that not bum, but shine, 

Pure, calm, and sweet ! 

And as the records are 

Which wandering seamen keep, 
Led by their hidden star 

Through winter's deep ; 
So may the words I write 

Tell through what storms I stray, 
You still the unseen light 

Guiding my way ! 



THE LEGACY. 

WHEN in death I shall calm recline, 
Oh bear my heart to my mistress dear; 

Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine 
Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here. 

Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow 
To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; 

But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, 
To bathe the relic from morn till night. 

When the light of my song is o'er, 
Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; 

Hang it up at that friendly door, 
Where weary travellers love to call 1 

Tlion if some bard who roams forsaken, 
Revive its soft note in passing along, 

Oh ! let one thought of its master waken 
Your warmest smile for the child of son<r 

&" 

Krnp this cup, which is now o'erflowing, 
To grace your revel, when I'm at rest ; 

Nc>ver, oh 1 never its balm bestowing 
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest ! 

But when some warm devoted lover 
To her he adores shall bathe its brim, 

Oh ! then my spirit around shall hover, 
And hallow each drop that foams for him. 



" In every house wan one or two harps, free to all travel- 
lers who were the more caressed the more they excelled in 

I W'.C " ff lluUurtm 



HOW OFT HAS THE BEN&HEE CRIED 

How oft has the Benshee cried ! 
How oft has death untied 
Bright links that glory wove, 
Sweet bonds entwined by love ! 
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth 1 
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth I 
Long may the fair and brave 
Sigh o'er the hero's grave. 

We're fallen upon gloomy days,' 

Star after star decays, 

Every bright name that shed 

Light o'er the land is fled. 
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth 
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth, 

But brightly flows the tear 

Wept o'er the hero's bier ! 

Oh ! quench'd are our beacon-light 
Thou of the hundred fights !' 
Thou on whose burning tongue 
Truth, peace, and freedom hung !' 

Both mute, but long as valor shin<;th, 

Or mercy's soul at war repineth, 
So long shall Erin's pride 
Tell how thev lived and died. 



WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS 
WORLD. 

WE may roam through this world like a 

child at a feast 
Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to 

the rest ; 
And when pleasure begins to grow dull in 

the east, 

We may order our wings, and be off to 
the west; 



1 1 have endeavored here, without losing tht Irish character 
which It is my object to preserve throughout this work, to at 
Inde to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has 
been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment 
when she most requires all the aids of talent ad integrity. 

1 This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson 
before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem 
by O'Qnive, the bard of O'Neil, which is quoted in the Philo- 
sophical Survey of the South of Ireland, page 433: "Con, ol 
the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-yown tomb, and up 
braid not our defeats with thy victories I" 

' Fox" ntimns Romanorum I" 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOO UK. 



But if hearts that feel and eyes that smile 

Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, 
We never need leave our own Green Isle, 

For sensitive hearts and for sun-bnght eyes. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is 

crown'd, 
Through this world, whether eastward or 

westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman 

goes round, 

Oh! remember the smile which adorns her 
at home. 

fn England the garden of beauty is kept 

By a dragon of prudery, placed within call ; 
But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, 
That the garden's but carelessly watch'd 

after all. 

Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fenee 
Which round the flowers of Erin dwells, 
Which warms the touch while winning the 

sense, 

Nor charms us least when it most repels. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is 

crown'd, 
Through this world, whether eastward or 

westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman 

goes round, 

Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her 
at home. 

In France, when the heart of a woman sets 

sail 

On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, 
Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, 
But just pilots her off, and then bids her 

good-bye ! 
While the daughters of Erin keep the boy 

Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, 
Through billows of woe and beams of joy, 
The same as he look'd when he left the 

shore. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is 

crown'd 
Through this world, whether eastward or 

westward you roam, 
When a cup to thf smile of dear woman 

goes round, 

Oh I remember the smile which 
her at home. 



EVELEEN'S BOWER. 

On ! weep for the hour 

When to Eveleen's bowei 
The lord of the valley with fa4se vows came 

The moon hid her light 

From the heavens that night, 
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's 
shame. 

The clouds past soon 

From the chaste cold moon, 
And heaven smiled again with her vestal 
flame; 

But none will see the day 

When the clouds shall pass away 
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen'e 
fame. 

The white snow lay 
On the narrow pathway 
When the lord of the valley crost over the 

moor; 

And many a deep print 
On the white snow's tint 
Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen'g 

door. 

The next sun's ray 
Soon melted away 
Every trace on the path where the false lood 

came; 

But there's a light above 
Which alone can remove 
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen'i 
fame. 



THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.' 

SILENT, O Moyle ! be the roar of thy water, 
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, 

While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely 

daughter 
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. 



1 To make this story intelligible in a song would require a 
much greater immber of verses than any one is authorized to 
inflict ui)oii au andicucc at unce ; the reader must therefore be 
content to learn, in a note, ihat Fiommala, the daughter of 
Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed iuio A 
swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, 
tret certain lakes and rivers of Ireland tUl the coming of 
Ihrietianity, when the first aound of the maes-bell was u> b 



38 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



When shall the swan, her death-note singing 
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? 

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, 
Call my spirit from this stormy world ? 

Sadly, Moyle ! to thy winter wave weeping 

Fate bids me languish long ages away ! 
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping 

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay 
When will that day-star, mildly springing, 

Warm our isle with peace and love ? 
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, 

Call my spirit to the fields above ? 



LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS 
OF OLD. 

LET Erin remember the days of old, 

Ere her faithless sons betray'd her ; 
When Malachi wore the collar of gold 1 

Which he won from her proud invader ; 
When her kings with standard of green 
unfurl'd 

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ;' 
Ere the emerald gem of the western world 

Was set in the crown of a stranger. 

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman 

strays,' 
When the clear cold eve's declining, 



the signal of her release. I found thl fanciful fiction among 
tome manuscript translations from the Irish, begun under the 
direction of th late Countess of Moira. 

" This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the mon- 
arch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which 
Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encoun- 
tered sncMMlTely hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from 
the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other as 
trophies of hli victory."- Warn*-', Hist, qf Ireland, vol.' 1. 



tmta T T r ngtB were Teiy eirly "tIi<>hcd In 
Ireland Long before the birth of Christ we find n hereditary 
order of chivalry in Ulster, called Curaldhe na OnHobhe ruadh 
or the Knight, of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in 
ania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kin called 
A eagh na CraMlu ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Bunch 
and comign,,u 9 to which was a large hospital, founded for the 
rtck knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg, or the houso of 

" 



h, ln the timcof GIM<, that Lough 

Jeagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden ove> 
Bowing the country was Inundated, and a whole region, like 
he A Ian is of Plato, overwhelmed. He says, that the fisher" 
in clear weather, used to point out to stranger, the Ml 
w wers under fie water. 



He sees the round towers of other days 
In the wave beneath him shining ! 

Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime. 
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over 

Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time 
For the long-faded glories they cover! 



COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. 




COMB, send round the wine, and leave 

of belief 

To simpleton sages and reasoning fools ; 
This moment's a flower too fair and brief 
To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of 

the schools. 
Your glass may be purple, and mine may U 

blue, 
But while they are fill'd from the same 

bright bowl, 
The fool who would quarrel for difference of 

hue 

Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er 
the soul. 

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights .Sy 

my side 
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds 

agree ? 
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and 

tried, 
If he kneel not before the same altar with 

me? 

From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly, 
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox 

kiss? 

No 1 perish the hearts and the laws that try 
Truth, valor, or love by a standard like 
this! 



SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. 

UBLIME was the warning which Liberty 
spoke, 

nd grand was the moment when Spaniards 

awoke 
Into life and revenge from the conqueroi'i 

chain ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



39 






Liberty ! let not this spirit have rest, 
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of 

the west 

Give the light of your look to each sorrow- 
ing spot, 

Nor oh i be the shamrock of Erin forgot, 
While you add to your garland the olive 
of Spain ! 

If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with 

their rights, 
Give to country its charm, and to home its 

delights, 

If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, 
Then, ye men of Iberia ! our cause is the same ; 
And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a 

name, 

Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, 

Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath 

For the shamrock of Erin and olive of 

Spain ! 

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers 

resign'd 
The green hills of their youth among 

strangers to find 
That repose which at home they had sigh'd 

for in vain, 
Breathe a hope that the magical flame which 

you light 

May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright ; 
And forgive even Albion, while blushing she 

draws, 
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted 

cause 
Of the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain ! 

God prosper the cause ! oh! it cannot but 

thrive 

il^ the pulse of one patriot heart is alive 
It* devotion to feel and its rights to main- 
tain ; 
Then how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will 

die! 

Tb-s finger of glory shall point where they lie, 
While, far from the footstep of coward or 

slave, 
young spirit of Freedom shall shelter 

their grave 

Beneath shamrocks of Erin and olives of 
Spain. 



BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE EN- 
DEARING YOUNG CHARMS. 

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young 

charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in 

my arms, 

Like fairy-gifts fading away ! 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment 

thou art, 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
And around the dear ruin each wish of my 

heart 
Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 
That the fervor and faith of a soul may be 

known, 
To which time will but make thee more 

dear! 
Oh the heart that has truly loved never foi - 

gets, 

But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sunflower turns to her god when she 

sets 

The same look which she turn'd when he 
rose! 



ERIN ! O ERIN ! 

LIKE the bright lamp that lay on Kildare'a 

holy shrine, 
And burn'd through long ages of darkness 

and storm, 
Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in 

vain, 
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and 

warm! 

Erin ! O Erin ! thus bright through the tears 
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears I 

The nations have fallen, and thou still art 

young, 

Thy sun is but rising when others are set ; 
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy mornm? 

hath huncr, 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE 



The full moon of freedom shall beam roun< 

thee yet. 

Erin ! O Erin ! though long in the shade, 
Thy star will shine out when the proudes 
shall fade I 

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by thi 

wind, 
The lily lies sleeping through winter'i 

cold hour, 

Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind 
And daylight and liberty bless the young 

flower. 

Erin 1 O Erin ! thy winter is past, 
And the hope that lived through it shal 
blossom at last ! 



DRINK TO HER. 

DRINK to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh ; 
The girl who gave to SODC; 

What gold could never buy. 
Oh ! woman's heart was made 

For minstrel hands alone ! 
By other fingers play'd, 

It yields not half the tone. 
Then here's to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy ! 

At beauty's door of glass 

When wealth and wit once stood, 
They ask'd her, " which might pass ?" 

She answer'd, "He who could." 
With golden key wealth thought 

To pass but 'twould not do : 
While wit a diamond brought 

Which cut his bright way through ! 
Then here's to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy ! 

The love that seeks a home 

Where wealth and grandeur shines, 
Is like the gloomy gnome 

That dwells in dark gold mines. 



But oh ! the poet's love 

Can boast a brighter sphure ; 
Its native home's above, 

Though woman keeps it here ! 
Then drink to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy I 



OH BLAME NOT THE BARD. 1 

OH blame not the bard if he Hies to the 

bowers 
Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at 

fame; 
He was born for much more, and in happier 

hours 
His soul might have burn'd with a holier 

flame. 
The string that now languishes loose o'er 

the lyre, 

Might have bent a bright bow to the war- 
rior's dart, 1 
And the lip which now breathes but the song 

of desire, 

Might have pour'd the full tide of a patri- 
ot's heart 1 

But, alas for his country ! her pride is gone 

And that spirit is broken which never 

would bend. 
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, 
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to 

defend. 
Inprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to 

betray ; 

Undistinguish'd they live, if they sham* 
not their sires ; 



1 We may suppose this apology to hare been nttered by 
ne of those wandering bards whom Spencer o severely, and 
erhaps truly, describes in his State of Inland, and whos 
oems, he tells us, " were sprinkled with some pretty floweri 
f their natural device, which gave good grace and comelinew 
into them, the which it is great pity to see abased to the gra- 
ing of wickedness and vice, which with good usage, would 
erve to adorn and beautify virtue." 

a It is conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ireland tl 

rived from Tr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of whioJi 

eapon the Irish were once very expert. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



41 



And the torch that would light them through 

dignity's way 

Must be caught from the pile where their 
country expires ! 

Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's 

soft dream, 
He should try to forget what he never can 

heal; 

Oh ! give but a hope let a vista but gleam 
Through the gloom of his country, and 

mark how he'll feel ! 
That instant his heart at her shrine would 

lay down 
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it 

adored, 
\Vhile the myrtle, now idly entwined with 

his crown, 

Like the wreath of Harmodius, should 
cover his sword. 1 

But though glory be gone, and though hope 

fade away, 
Thy name, loved Erin ! shall live in his 

songs ; 
Not even in the hour when his heart is most 

gay 

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and 

thy wrongs ! 
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his 

plains ; 
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the 

deep, 
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet 

thy chains, 
Shall pause at the song of their captive 

and weep ! 



WHILE GAZING ON THE 
LIGHT. 



MOON'S 



WHILE gazing on the moon's light, 

A moment from her smile I turn'd, 
To look at orbs that more bright 
In lone and distant glory burn'd. 
But too far 
Each proud star 



Ac. 



the hymn attributed to Alctens, " I will carry my 
i, hidden In myitlee, like HarmodiuB and Aristoglton," 



For me to feel its warming flame 
Much more dear 
That mild sphere 

Which near our planet smiling came ;* 
Thus, Mary, be but thou my cwn 

While brighter eyes unheeded play, 
I'll love those moonlight looks alone, 

Which bless my home and guide my way , 

The day had sunk in dim showers, 

But midnight now, with lustre meek, 
Illumined all the pale flowers, 

Like hope that lights a mourner's cheek. 
I said, (while 
The moon's smile 

Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling bliss,) 
" The moon looks 
On many brooks, 

The brook can see no moon but this :' 
And thus I thought our fortunes run, 

For many a lover looks to thee, 
While oh ! I feel there is but one, 
One Mary in the world for me. 



ILL OMENS. 

WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the 

billow, 
And stars in the heavens still ling'ring 

shone, 
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her 

pillow, 

The last time she e'er was to press it alone. 
For the youth, whom she treasured her heart 

and her soul in, 
Had promised to link the last tie before 

noon; 
Aad when once the young heart of a maiden 

is stolen, 
The maiden herself will steal after it soon 1 

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman 
ne'er misses, 



' " Of each celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted. 
the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to mosl 
of the others, is much more beneficial than they all pat to- 
gether." Whiston's Theory, &c. 

* This Image was suggested by the following thought, 
which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's worlu: 
" The moon looks npoii many niiiut-flowers, the night-flowei 
sees bnt one m ton." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Nor ever wants time for a sly glance o 

two, 
A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower 

kisses, 
Flew over the mirror, and shaded he 

view. 

Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces 
She brush'd him he fell, alas! never t 

rise 
" Ah ! such," said the girl, " is the pride o 

our faces, 

For which. the soul's innocence too often 
dies !" 

While she stole through the garden where 

heart's-ease was growing, 
She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night 

fallen dew; 
And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting 

and glowing, 
That, spite of her haste, she must gather 

it too ; 
But while o'er the roses too carelessly lean 

ing, 
Her zone flew in two, and her heart's-ease 

was lost 
"Ah! this means," said the girl, (and she 

sigh'd at its meaning,) 
" That love is scarce worth the repose it 
will cost !" 



BEFORE THE BATTLE. 

BY the hope within us springing, 

Herald of to-morrow's strife ; 
By that sun whose light is bringing 

. Chains or freedom, death or life 

Oh I remember, life can be 

No charm for him who lives not free ! 

Like the day-star in the wave, 

Sinks a hero to his grave, 
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears ! 

Bless'd is he o'er whose decline 
The smiles of home may soothing shin- 
And light him down the steep of years: 
But, oh, how grand they sink to rest 
Who close their eyes on victory's breast ! 



I 



O'er his watch-fire's fading embers 
Now the foeman's cheek turns white, 

While his heart that field remembers 
Where we dimm'd his glory's light 1 

Never let him bind again 

A chain like that we broke from then. 

Hark ! the horn of combat calls 

Oh, before the evening falls, 
May we pledge that horn in triumph round I 

Many a heart that now beats high, 
In slumber cold at night shall lie, 
Nor waken even at victory's sound : 
But, oh, how blest that hero's sleep, 
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep 1 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 

NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way, 

And lightning show'd the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day, 

Stood few and faint, but fearless still 
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeai, 

Forever dimm'd, forever crost 
3h who shall say what heroes feel, 

When all but life and honor's lost I 

The last sad hour of freedom's dream 

And valor's task moved slowly by, 
While mute they watch'd till morning's beam 

Should rise and give them light to die ! 
There is a world where souls are free, 

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; 
f death that world's bright opening be, 

Oh I who would live a slave in this ? 



OH 'TIS SWEET TO THINK. 

OH 'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove, 
We are sure to find something blissful and 

dear; 

nd that, when we're far from the lips we 
love, 



1 The Irish Coma was not entirely devoted to martla. 
nrposcs. In the heroic ages our ancestor* quaffed meacih 
at of them, ae the Danish hunters do their beverage at thif 
day." Walker. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



43 



j have but to make love to the lips we 

are near!' 

The heart like a tendril accustom'd to cling, 
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish 

alone, 

But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing 
It can twine with itself and make closely 

its own. 

Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove, 
To be doom'd to find something still that 

is dear, 

And to know, when far from the lips we love, 
We have but to make love to the lips we 
are near. 

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, 
To make light of the rest, if the rose is not 

there, 

And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 

'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. 

Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly 

alike, 
They are both of them bright, but they're 

changeable too, 
And wherever a new beam of beauty can 

strike, 

It will tincture love's plume with a differ- 
ent hue ! 

Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove, 
To be doom'd to find something still that 

is dear, 

And to know, when far from the lips we love, 
We have but to make love to the lips we 
are near. 




THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS 
MISTRESS. 



THROUGH grief and through danger thy 
smile hath cheer'd my way 

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn 
that round me lay ; 



1 I believe It i.- Murmontel who Bays, " Qiiand on n'a pas ce 
yv* Fan alme, Ufaut aimer ce que fan a." There are so many 
matter-of-fact people who take such jeux (f esprit as this 
defence of Inconstancy to bu the annul and genuine senti- 
ments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self- 
defence, to be M matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind 
them that Democrltus was not the worse physiologist for 
hiving playfully contended that snow was black, nor Erasmus 
In ny degree the less wise for having written an ingenious 
Bcomium of folly. 



The darker our fortune, the brighter our 

pure love burn'd, 
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal wa 

turn'd ; 
Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit 

felt free, 
And bless'd even the sorrow that made me 

more dear to thee. 

Thy rival was honor'd, while thou wert 

wrong'd and scorn'd, 
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her 

brows adorn'd ; 
She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st 

hid in caves, 
Her friends were all masters, while thine, 

alas ! were slaves ; 
Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would 

rather be, 
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one 

thought from thee. 

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vowa 

are frail 
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had 

look'd less pale ! 
They say too, so long thou hast worn those 

lingering chains, 
That deep in thy heart they have printed 

their servile stains 
Oh ! do not believe them no chain could 

that soul subdue. 
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty 

shineth too ! 



ON MUSIC. 

WHEN through life unblest we rove, 

Losing all that made life dear, 
Should some notes we used to love 

In days of boyhood meet our ear, 
Oh 1 how welcome breathes the strain ! 

Wakening thoughts that long have slept 
Kindling former smiles again, 

In faded eyes that long have wept ! 

Like the gale that sighs along 
Beds of oriental flowers 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Is the grateful breath of song 

That once was heard in happier hours ; 
FilPd with balm, the gale sighs on, 

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; 
So, when pleasure's dream is gone, 

Its memory lives in music's breath I 

Music ! oh I how faint, how weak, 

Language fades before thy spell ! 
Why should feeling ever speak, 

When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? 
Friendship's balmy words may feign, 

Love's are even more false than they ; 
Oh ! 'tis only music's strain 

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray ! 



THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. 

'Tis believed that this harp which I wake 

now for thee 

Was a siren of old who sung under the sea ; 
And who often at eve through the bright 

billow roved 
To meet on the green shore a youth whom 

she loved. 

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to 
weep, 

And in tears all the night her gold ringlets 
to steep, 

Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so 
warm, 

And changed to this soft harp the sea- 
maiden's form ! 

Still her bosom rose fair still her cheek 

smiled the same 
While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd 

round the frame ; 
And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all 

its bright rings, 
Fell over her white arm, to make the gold 

strings ! 

Hence it came that this soft harp so long 

hath been known 
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad 

tone; 



Till thou didst divide them, and teach the 

fond lay 
To be love when I'm near tliee and grief 

when away ! 



IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS 
MOMENT SHED. 1 

IT is not the tear at this moment shed, 

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er 

him, 

That can tell how beloved was the soul tbat'i 
fled, 

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 
'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, 

Through a life, by his loss all shaded ; 
'Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept 

When all lighter griefs have faded ! 

Oh ! thus shall we mourn, and his memory'i 

light, 
While it shines through our hearts, will 

improve them, 
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more 

bright, 
When we think how he lived but to love 

them ! 
And as buried saints the grave perfume 

Where fadeless they've long, been lying, 

So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom 

From the image he left there in dying t 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 

! the days are gone when beauty bright 

My heart's chain wove ; 
When my dream of life, from morn till night 
Was love, still love ! 
New hope may bloom, 
And days may come, 
Of milder, calmer beam, 
But there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream ! 
Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life 
As love's young dream ! 



These linen were occasioned by the los of a very ner tat 
lear relative, who died lately at Madeira. 



- 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 






Though the bard to purer fame may soar, 

When wild youth's past ; 
Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, 

To smile at last ; 

He'll never meet 

A joy so sweet 
In all his noon of fame, 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame, 
And at every close she blnsh'd to hear 

The one loved name ! 



fn 



Oh ! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, 

Which first love traced ; 
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 
On memory's waste ! 
'Twas odor fled 
As soon as shed ; 
'was morning's winged dream ; 
Twas a light that ne'er can shine again 

On life's dull stream ! 

Oh ! 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again 
On life's dull stream ! 



I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL 
PRIME. 

I SAW thy form in youthful prime, 

Nor thought'that pale decay 
Would steal before the steps of time; 

And waste its bloom away, Mary ! 
Yet still thy features wore that light 

Which fleets not with the breath ; 
And life ne'er look'd more purely bright 

Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! 

As streams that run o'er golden mines, 

With modest murmur glide, 
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 

Within their gentle tide, Mary ! 
So, veil'd beneath the simple guise, 

Thy radiant genius shone, 
And that which charm'd all other eyes 

Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary ! 

If souls could always dwell above, 
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; 



Or could we keep the souls we love, 
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! 

Though many a gifted mind we meet, 
Though fairest forms we see, 

To live with them is far less swoi't, 
Than to remember thee, Mary ! 



THE PRINCE'S DAY. 1 

THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'U 

forget them, 

And smile through our tears, like a sun- 
beam in showers ; 
There never were hearts, if our rulers would 

let them, 
More form'd to be grateful and blesse'd 

than ours ! 

But just when the chain 
Has ceased to pain, 
And hope has enwreathed it round with 

flowers, 

There comes a new link 
Our spirit to sink 
Oh ! the joy that we taste, like the light of 

the poles, 
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant tc 

stay; 
But though 'twere the last little spark in our 

souls, 

We must light it up now, on our Prince's 
day. 

Contempt on the minion who calls you dis- 
loyal ! 
Though fierce to your foe, to your friends 

you are true; 
And the tribute most high to a head that is 

royal, 

Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. 
While cowards, who blight 
Your fame, your light, 
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle 

array, 

The standard of green 
In front would be seen 



1 Tliie song was written for a (8te in honor of the Prince of 
Wnies'e birthday, given by iny friend Major Bryan. at hif sent 
In the county of Kilkenny. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Oh ! my life on your faith ! were you sum- 

mon'd this minute, 

You'd cast ever bitter remembrance away, 
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it 
When roused by the foe on her Prince's 
day. 

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is re- 
corded 
In hearts which have suffer'd too much to 

forget ; 
And hope shall be crown'd and attachment 

rewarded, 

And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet ! 
The gem may be broke 
By many a stroke, 

But nothing can cloud its native ray ; 
Each fragment will cast 
A light to the last ! 
And thus, Erin, my country ! though broken 

thou art, 
There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will 

decay ; 
A spirit that beams through each suffering 

part, 

And now smiles at their pain on the Prince's 
day! 



LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. 

LESBIA hath a beaming eye, 

But no one knows for whom it beameth ; 
Right and left its arrows fly, 

But what they aim at no one droameth ! 
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon 

My Nora's lid, that seldom rises ; 
Few its looks, but every one, 
Like unexpected light, surprises 1 

O my Nora Creina, dear ! 
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina I 
Beauty lies 
In many eyes, 
But love in yours, my Nora Creina I 

Lesbia wears a robe of gold, 

But all so close the nymph hath laced it, 
Not a charm of beauty's mould 

Presumes to stay where nature placed it ! 



Oh ! my Nora's gown for me, 

That floats as wild as mountain breezes, 
Leaving every beauty free 
To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases 1 

Yes, my Nora Creina ! 
My simple, graceful Nora Creina ! 
Nature's dress 
Is loveliness 
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina 1 

Lesbia hath a wit refined, 

But when its points are gleaming round ui 
Who can tell, if they're design'd 

To dazzle merely, or to wound us ? 
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, 

In safer slumber Love reposes 
Bed of peace ! whose roughest part 
Is but the crumpling of the roses. 

O my Nora Creina, dear ! 
My mild, my artless Nora Creina 1 
Wit, though bright, 
Hath not the light 
That warms your eyes, my Nora Crenia ! 



WEEP ON, WEEP ON. 

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past, 

Your dreams of pride are o'er, 
The fatal chain is round you cast, 

And you are men no more ! 
In vain the hero's heart hath bled ; 

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain \ 
freedom ! once thy flame hath fled 

It never lights again ! 

Weep on perhaps, in after days, 

They'll learn to love your name ; 
And many a deed may wake in praise 

That long has slept in blame ! 
And when they tread the ruin'd isle, 

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, 
They'll wond'ring ask how hands so vile 

Could conquer hearts so brave ! 

" 'Twas fate," they'll say, " a wayward fate 

Your web of discord wove ; 
And while your tyrants join'd in hate, 

You never join'd in love 1 






J'OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



47 



Bnt hearts fell off that ought to twine, 
And man profaned what God had given, 

Till some were heard to curse the shrine 
Where -others knelt to Heaven !" 






- 



BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY 
SHORE.' 

BY that lake, whose gloomy shore 
Skylark never warbles o'er, 
Where the cliff hangs high and steep, 
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. 
"Here, at least," he calmly said, 
" Woman ne'er shall find my bed." 
Ah ! the good saint little knew 
What that wily sex can do. 

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, 
Eyes of most unholy blue ! 
See had loved him well and long, 
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong. 
Wheresoe'er the saint would fly, 
Still he heard her light foot nigh ; 
East or west, where'er he turn'd, 
Still her eyes before him burn'd. 

On the bold cliff's bosom cast, 
Tranquil now he sleeps at last ; 
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er 
Woman's smile can haunt him there. 
But nor earth, nor heaven is free 
From her power, if fond she be ; 
Even now, while calm he sleeps, 
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. 



Fearless she had track'd his feet, 
To this rocky, wild retreat ; 
And when morning met his view, 
Her mild glances met it too. 
Ah ! your saints have cruel hearts ! 
Sternly from his bed he starts, 
And with rude, repulsive shock, 
Hurls her from the beetling rock. 



1 This ballad It founded npon one of the many storie* re- 
Jrted of Saint Kevin, whose bed In the rock is to be seen at 
Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot In the county 
of Wlcklow. 



Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave 
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave ! 
Soon the saint (yet ah ! too late) 
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. 
When he said, " Heaven rest her sotu 1" 
Round the lake like music stole; 
And her ghost was seen to glide, 
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide ! 



SHE IS FAB FROM THE LAND. 

[This poem refers to the betrothed of Robert Emmet. She 
afterward became the wife of an officer, who took her to Sicily, 
in the hope that travel would restore her spirit?, but her grief 
for Emmet was so great that she died of a broken heart.] 

SHE is far from the land where her young 

hero sleeps, 

And lovers are round her sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and 

weeps, 
For her heart in his grave is lying ! 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native 

plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking ; 
Ah 1 little they think who delight in her 

strains, 
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 

He had lived for his love, for his country he 

died, 
They were all that to life had entwined 

him; 
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be 

dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

Oh ! make her a grave where the suubeami 

rest, 

When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile froi>- 

the west, 
From her own loved island of sorrow 1 



NAY, TELL ME NOT. 

NAY, tell me not, dear! that the goblet 
drowns 

One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; 
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns 

Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Ne'er hath a beam 
Been lost in the stream 
That ever was shed from thy form or soul ; 
The balm of thy sighs, 
The spell of thine eyes, 
Still float on the surface, and hallow my 

bowl ! 

Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal 
One blissful dream of the heart from me ! 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
The bowl but brightens my love for thee ! 

They tell us that love in his fairy bower 

Had two blush-roses of birth divine ; 
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's 

shower, 

But bathed the other with mantling wine. 
Soon did the buds, 
That drank of the floods, 
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade ; 
While those which the tide 
Of ruby had dyed, 
All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet 

maid ! 

Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal 
One blissful dream of the heart from me ; 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
The bowl but brightens my love for thee. 



AVENGING AND BRIGHT. 

AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of 

Erin 1 
On him who the brave sons of Usna be- 

tray'd ! 

For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, 
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep 
o'er her blade. 

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's 

dark dwelling,* 

When Iliad's* three champions lay sleep- 
ing in gore ; 



Hy the billows of war which so often high 

swelling 

Have wafted tlicse heroes to victory'i 
shore ! 

We swear to revcngi- them ! no joy shall 

be tasted, 

The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, 
Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall 

lie wasted, 

Till vengeance is wreak'd orf the murder- 
er's head ! 

Yes, monarch ! though sweet are our home 

recollections, 
Though sweet are the tears that from 

tenderness fall ; 
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, 

and affections, 
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all ! 



> The words of this Bong were suggested by the very ancient 
Irish story called " Delrdrl ; or The Lamentable Fate of the 
Sons of Usnach." 

1 " O Naisi ! view the clond that I here cc In the sky 1 I 
ee over Eman green > chilling clor-d of blood-tinged red " 
DttntrCi Song. 

Ulster. 



LOVE AND THE NOVICE. 

" HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers, 

Where angels of light o'er our orisons 

bend; 
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of 

flowers 

To Heaven in mingled odor ascend ! 
Do not disturb our calm, O Love ! 
So like is thy form to the cherubs above, 
It well might deceive such hearts as ours." 

Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd, 

And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; 
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety 

glisten 'd ; 

His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. 
" Who would have thought," the urchin 

cries, 
" That Love could so well, so gravely 

disguise 
His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?" 

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping : 
Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise ; 
He tinges the heavenly fount with hit 
weeping, 



POEMS OF THOMAS .MOORE. 



40 



He brightens the censer's flame with his 

sighs. 

Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast, 
And angels themselves would admit 

such a guest, 
If he came to them clothed in piety's vest. 



WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE 
FLOWERET. 

lie. What the bee is to the floweret, 

When he looks for honey-dew 
Through the leaves that close embower it, 
That, my love, I'll be to you ! 

She. What the bank with verdure glowing 

Is to waves that wander near, 
Whispering kisses, while they're going, 
That I'll be to you, my dear ! 

She But they say the bee's a rover, 

That he II fly when the sweets are gone ; 
And when once the kiss is over, 
Faithless brooks will wander on ! 

He. Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, 

If sunny banks will wear away, 
'Tis but right that bees and brooks 
Should sip and kiss them while they 
may. 



THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKER'D WITH 
PLEASURES AND WOES. 

THIS life is all checker'd with pleasures and 

woes, 
That chase one another like waves of the 

deep, 
Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows, 

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. 
So closely our whims on our miseries tread, 
That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can 

be dried ; 

And as fast as the rain-drop of pity is shed, 
The goose-plumageof folly can turn it aside. 



But pledge me the cup if existence would 

cloy 
With hearts ever happy and heads ever 

wise, 

Be ours the light grief that is sister to joy, 
And the short brilliant folly that flashes 
and dies ! 

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the 

fount, 
Through fields full of sunshine, with heart 

full of play, 
Light rambled the boy over meadow and 

mount, 
And neglected his task for the flowers on 

the way. 1 
Thus some who, like me, should have drawn 

and have tasted 
The fountain that runs by philosophy's 

shrine, 
Their time with the flowers on the margin 

have wasted, 
And left their light urus all as empty as 

mine ! 
But pledge me the goblut, while idlenest 

weaves 

Her flowerets together ; if wisdom can see 
One bright drop or two that has fallen on 

the leaves 

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for 
me ! 



THE SHAMROCK ! 

THROUGH Erin's Isle, 

To sport a while, 
As Love and Valor wander'd, 

With Wit, the sprite, 

Whose quiver bright 
A thousand arrows squander" d ; 

Where'er they pass, 

A triple grass* 



" Proposito florem prretnlit offlcio." Property lib. i. eleg. 
20. 

* Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of 
the trefoil to which in Ireland we give the name of Sham- 
rock, In explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan 
Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for oar 
adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among 
the ancients, was sometimes represented as A beautiful child. 



50 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, 
As softly green 
As emerald seen 

Through purest crystal gleaming ! 
the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sham- 
rock ! 

Chosen leaf 
Of bard and chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 

Says Valor, " See, 

They spring for me, 
Those leafy gems of morning I" 

Says Love, " No, no, 

For me they grow, 
My fragrant path adorning !" 

But Wit perceives 

The triple leaves, 
And cries " Oh ! do not sever 

A type that blends 

Three godlike friends, 
Love, Valor, Wit, forever !" 
O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sham- 
rock ! 

Chosen leaf 

Of bard and chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 



AT THE MID-HOUR OF NIGHT. 

AT the mid-hour of night, when stars are 

weeping, I fly 
To the lone vale we loved when life shone 

warm in thine eye, 
And I think that, if spirits can steal from 

the region of air 
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt 

come to me there, 
And tell me our love is remember'd even in 

the sky ! 

Then I sing the wild song which once 'twas 

rapture to hear, 
When our voices, both mingling, breathed 

like one on the ear ; 



"standing upon tip-toes, ind a trefoil or three-colored grass 
x bet baud." 



And as Echo far off through the vale my 

sad orison rolls, 
I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from 

the kingdom of souls' 



Faintly answering still the notes that one* 
were so dear: 



ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. 

ONE bumper at parting ! though many 

Have circled the board since we met, 
The fullest, the saddest, of any 

Remains to be crown'd by us yet 
The sweetness that pleasure has in i\. 

Is always so slow to come forth, 
That seldom, alas, till the minute 

It dies, do we know half its worth ! 
But, oh, may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up ; 
They're born on the bosom of pleasure, 

They die 'midst, the tears of the cup. 

As onward we journey, how pleasant 

To pause and inhabit a while 
Those few sunny spots, like the present, 

That 'mid the dull wilderness smile ! 
But Time, like a pitiless master, 

Cries " Onward !" and spurs the g 

hours, 
And never does Time travel faster 

Than when his way lies among flowers. 
But come, may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up ; 
They're born on the bosom of pleasure, 

They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 

How brilliant the sun look'd in sinking, 

The waters beneath him how bright ! 
Oh ! trust me, the farewell of drinking 

Should be like the farewell of light. 
You saw how he fiuish'd by dartin<* 

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim 
So fill up, let's shine at our parting, 

In full liquid glory like him. 



"There are countries," says Montaigne, " where they b- 
ieve the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, la 
delightful fields ; and that it i those souls repeat 'ng the word 
we utter which we call Echo." 




THE MINSTREL BOY. 



1'OKMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



51 



And oh ! may our life's happy measure 
Of moments like this he made up ; 

Twas born on the bosom of pleasure, 
It dies 'midst the tears of the cup ! 



'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 

'Tis the last rose of summer, 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred, 

No rosebud is nigh 
To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh fci sigh ! 

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one 1 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go, sleep thou with them ; 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed. 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may /follow, 

When friendships decay, 
And from love's shining circle 

Thy gems drop away ! 
When true hearts lie wither'd, 

And fond ones are flown, 
Oh ! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone ? 






THE YOUNG MAY MOON. 

THE young May moon is beaming, love, 
The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love, 

How sweet to rove 

Through Morna's grove, 
While the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! 
Then awake ! the heavens look bright, my 

dear ! 
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear ! 

And the best of all ways 

To lengthen our days 

[g to steal a few hours from the night, my 
dear! 



Now all the world is sleeping, love, 

But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, 

And I, whose star, 

More glorious far, 

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. 
Then awake ! till rise of sun, my dear, 
The sage's glass we'll shun, rny dear, 

Or, in watching the flight 

Of bodies of light, 

He might happen to take thee for one, my 
dear! 



THE MINSTREL BOY. 

TUB minstrel boy to the war is gone, 

In the ranks of death you'll find him, 
His father's sword he has girded on, 

And his wild harp slung behind him. 
" Land of song !" said the warrior bard, 

" Though all the world betrays thee, 
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 

One faithful harp shall praise thee !" 

The minstrel fell ! but the foeman's chain 

Could not bring his proud soul under ; 
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, 

For he tore its chords asunder ; 
And said, " No chains shall sully thee, 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the pure and free, 

They shall never sound in slavery !" 



THE SONG OF O'RUARK, 

PRINCE OF BREFFNI." 

THE valley lay smiling before me, 

Where lately I left her behind, 
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, 

That sadden'd the joy of my mind. 



i Founded upon an event of most melancholy importance 
to Ireland, if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it, eave 
England the first opportunity of enslaving us. The kins cf 
Leinster uad conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil. 
daughter to the king of Heath, though she had been for -cme 
time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffhi. They carried on 
a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Kuark 
intended soon to go on a pilgrimage, and conjured him to em- 
brace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she 
detested. MacMurchad too punctually oheyed the summons, 
and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns. The mon- 
arch Eodrick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while MacMnr- 
chad fled to England, and obtained the assifitanre of Utnrv II 



52 



I'OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



I look'd for the lamp which, she told me, 
Should shine when her pilgrim return'd, 

But though darkness began to infold me, 
No lamp from the battlements burn'd ! 

I flew to her chamber 'twas lonely 

As if the loved tenant lay dead ! 
Ah, would it were death, and death only I 

But no the young false one had fled. 
And there hung the lute that could soften 

My very worst pains into bliss, 
While the hand that had waked it so often, 

Now throbb'd to my proud rival's kiss. 

There was a time, falsest of women ! 

When Breffhi's good sword would have 

sought 
That man. through a million of foemen, 

Who dared but to doubt thee in thought ! 
While now O degenerate daughter 

Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame ! 
And, through ages of bondage and slaughter, 

Thy country shall bleed for thy shame. 

Already the curse is upon her, 

And strangers her valleys profane ; 
They come to divide to dishonor, 

And tyrants they long will remain ! 
But, onward ! the green banner rearing, 

Go, flesh every sword to the hilt ; 
On our side is Virtue and Erin ! 

On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt. 



OH ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE 
ISLE OF OUR OWN ! 

OH ! had we some bright little isle of our 

own, 

In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, 
Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming 

bowers, 
And the bee banquets on through a whole 

year of flowers ; 
Where the sun loves to pause 

With so fond a delay, 
That the night only draws 
A thin veil o'er the day ; 



Where simply to feel that we bieathe, that 

we live, 
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can 

give! 

There, with souls ever ardent, and pure a 

the clime, 
We should love as they loved in the first 

golden time ; 

The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, 
Would steal to our hearts, and make all 

summer there ! 
With affection as free 

From decline as the bowers, 
And with hope, like the bee, 
Living always on flowers, 
Our life should resemble a long day of light, 
And our death come on holy and calin as 
the night ! 



FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU 
WELCOME THE HOUR. 

FAREWELL ! but whenever you welcome the 

hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in 

your bower, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed 

it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with 

you. 
His griefs may return not a hope may 

remain 
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway 

of pain 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that 

threw 
Its enchantment around him while ling'ring 

with you ! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure 

fills up 
To the highest top sparkle each heart and 

each cup, 

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you 

that night ; 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and 

your wiles, 









POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



59 



Ami return to me beaming all o'er with your 

smiles ! 
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay 

cheer, 
Some kind voice had murmurd, " I wish he 

were here !" 

Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot 

destroy ; 
Lnd which come, in the night-time of sorrow 

and care, 
To bring back the features that joy used to 

wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories 

fill'd ! 
Like the vase in which roses have once been 

distill'd 
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if 

you will, 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it 

still. 



YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. 1 

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, 

How meekly she bless'd her humble lot, 
When the stranger, William, had made her 
his bride, 

And love was the light of their lowly cot. 
Together they toil'd through winds and rains, 

Till William at length, in sadness, said, 
" We must seek our fortune on other plains ;" 

Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. 

They roam'd a long and a weary way, 

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, 
When now, at close of one stormy day, 

They see a proud castle among the trees. 
"To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter 
there ; 

The wind blows cold, the hour is late :" 
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, 

And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the 
gate. 

" Now, welcome, Lady !" exclaimed the 
youth ; 



This ballad was suggested by a well-known and interest- 
ing story told or a certain noble family in England. 



" This castle is thine, and these dark woods 

all." 
She believed him wild, but his words were 

truth, 

For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall ! 
And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves 

What William the stranger woo'd and wed ; 
And the light of bliss in these lordly groves 
Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed. 



OH! DOUBT ME NOT. 

OH ! doubt me not the season 

Is o'er when folly made me rove, 
And now the vestal reason 

Shall watch the fire awaked by love. 
Although this heart was early blown, 

And fairest hands disturb'd the tree, 
Thfy only shook some blossoms down, 
Its fruit has all been kept for thee. 
Then doubt me not the season 

Is o'er when folly made me rove, 
And now the vestal reason 

Shall watch the fire awaked by lova. 

And though my lute no longer 

May sing of passion's ardent spell, 
Oh, trust me, all the stronger 
I feel the bliss I do not tell. 
The bee through many a garden roves, 

And sings his lay of courtship o'er, 
But when he finds the flower he loves 
He settles there, and hums no more. 
Then doubt me not the season 

Is o'er when folly kept me free, 
And now the vestal reason 

Shall guard the flame awaked by thee. 



I'D MOURN THE HOPES. 

I'D mourn the hopes that leave me, 
If thy smiles had left me too ; 

I'd weep, when friends deceive me, 
If thou wert, like them, untrue. 

But while I've thee before me, 

With heart so warm and eyes so bright, 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



No clouds can linger o'er me, 
That smile turns them all to light ! 

Tis not in fate to harm me, 

While fate leaves thy love to me ; 
Tis net in joy to charm me, 

Unless joy be shared with thee. 
One minute's dream about thee 

Were worth a long, an endless year 
Of waking bliss without thee, 

My own love, my only dear ! 

And though the hope be gone, love, 

That long sparkled o'er our way, 
Oh ! we shall journey on, love, 

More safely without its ray. 
Far better lights shall win me 

Along the path I've yet to roam 
The mind that burns within me, 

And pure smiles from thee at home. 

Thus, when the lamp that lighted 

The traveller, at first, goes out, 
He feels a while benighted, 

And looks round in fear and doubt. 
But soon, the prospect Clearing, 

By cloudless starlight on he treads, 
And thinks no lamp so cheering 

As that light which Heaven sheds. 



COME O'ER THE SEA, 

COME o'er the sea, 
Maiden ! with me, 

Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows ! 
Seasons may roll. 
But the true soul 
Burns the same where'er it ffoes. 
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 
Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou 
art not ! 

Then come o'er the sea, 
Maiden ! with me, 

Come wherever the wild wind blows ; 
Seasons may roll, 
But the true soul 
B-.irns the same where'er it <joes. 



Is not the sea 

Made for the free, 
Land for courts and chains alone? 

Here we are slaves, 

But on the waves 
Love and liberty's all our own ! 
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, 
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us ! 

Then come o'er the sea, 

Maiden ! with me, 
Come wherever the wild wind blows ; 

Seasons may roll, 

But the true soul 
Burns the same where'er it goes. 



HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS 
SHADED ? 

HAS sorrow thy young days shaded, 

As clouds o'er the morning fleet ? 
Too fast have those young days faded, 

That even in sorrow were sweet ? 
Does time with his cold wing wither 

Each feeling that once was dear ? 
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 

Has love to that soul so tender, 

Been like our Lagenian mine, 1 
Where sparkles of golden splendor 

All over the surface shine 
But, if in pursuit we go deeper, 
Allured by the gleam that shone, 
Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper, 

Like love, the bright ore is gone. 

Has hope, like the bird in the story* 

That flitted from tree to tree 
With the talisman's glittering glory 

Has hope been that bird to thee ? 
On .branch after branch aliorhtino- 

O O> 

The gem did she still display, 
And when nearest and most inviting, 
Then waft the fair gem away ? 



1 Our Wicklow gold mines, to which this verse al nde, de- 
serve, I fear, the character here given of them. 
1 "The bird, having ^-ot its prize, settled not lar off, witk 
he talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping 
t wonld drop it ; bnt . as he approached, the bird took wing, 
and settled asrain." &c. Arabian Xig/its. Story of Kun 
-' Znmmana and the Princess of China 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOUE. 



55 



If thus the sweet hours have fleeted 

When sorrow herself look'd bright : 
If thus the fond hope has elicited, 

That led thee along so light; 
If thus the unkind world wither 

Each feeling that once was dear ; 
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 



NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. 

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers 

Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, 
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers, 

He thinks the full choir of heaven is near, 
Than came that voice, when all forsaken, 

This heart long had sleeping lain, 
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken 

To such benign, blessed sounds again. 

Sweet voice of comfort ! 'twas like the steal- 
ing 
Of summer wind through some wreathed 

shell- 
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling 

Of all my soul echo'd to its spell ! 
'Twas whisper'd balm 'twas sunshine 

spoken ! 

I'd live years of grief and pain 
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken 
By such benign, blessed sounds again ! 



WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 

WHEN first I met thee, warm and young, 

There shone such truth about thee, 
And on thy lip such promise hung, 

I did not dare to doubt thee. 
I saw thee change, yet still relied, 
Still clung with hope the fonder, 
And thought, though false to all beside, 
From me thou couldst not wander. 
But go, deceiver ! go, 

The heart, whose hopes could make it 
Trust one so false, so low, 

Deserves that thou shouldst break it! 



When every tongue thy follies named, 

I tied the unwelcome story ; 
Or found, in even the faults they blamed, 

Some gleams of future glory. 
I still was true, when nearer friends 

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ; 
The heart, that now thy falsehood rends, 

Would then have bled to ri<rht thee. 

O 

But go, deceiver! go, 

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken 
From pleasure's dream to know 

The grief of hearts forsaken. 

Even now, though youth its bloom hasshe<l 

No lights of age adorn thee ; 
The few who loved thee once, have fled, 

And they who flatter, scorn thee. 
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, 

No genial ties enwreath it ; 
The smiling there, like light on graves, 

Has rank cold hearts beneath it ! 
Go <jo though worlds were thine, 

O o ' 

I would not now surrender 
One taintless tear of mine 
For all thy guilty splendor ! 

And days may come, thou false one ! yet, 

When even those ties shall sever ; 
When thou wilt call with vain regret 

On her thou'st lost forever ! 
On her who, in thy fortune's fall, 

With smiles had still received thee, 
And gladly died to prove thee all 
Her fancy first believed thee. 
Go go 'tis vain to curse, 

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee, 
Hate cannot wish thee worse 

Than guilt and shame have made thee. 



WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. 

WHILE history's muse the memorial was 

keeping 

Of all that the dark hand of destiny weaves, 

Beside her the genius of Erin stood weeping, 

For hers was the story that blotted the 

leaves. 

But oh, how the tear in her eyelids grew 
bright. 



56 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKK 



When, after whole pages of sorrow anc 

shame, 

She saw history write 
With a pencil of light 
That illumed all the volume, her Wellington'! 
name ! 

" Hail, star of my isle !" said the spirit, al 

sparkling 
With beams such as break from her own 

dewy skies; 
" Through ages of sorrow, deserted anc 

darkling, 
I've watch'd for some glory like thine to 

arise. 
For though heroes I've number'd, unblest 

was their lot, 
And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross- 
ways of fame ! 
But oh there is not 
One dishonoring blot 
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's 
name ! 

And still the last crown of thy toils is re- 
maining, 
The grandest, the purest even thou hast 

yet known ; 
Though proud was thy task, other nations 

unchaining, 
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of 

thy own. 
At the foot of that throne, for whose weal 

thou hast stood, 
Go, plead for the land that first cradled 

thy fame 

And bright o'er the flood 
Of her tears and her blood 
Let the rainbow of hope be her Wellington's 
name !" 



THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. 

THE time I've lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 

The light that lies 

In woman's eyes, 
Has been my heart's undoing. 



Though wisdom oft has taught me, 
I scorn the lore that bought me, 

My only books 

Were woman's looks, 
And folly's all they've taught me. 

Her smile when'beauty granted, 
I hung with gaze enchanted, 

Like him, the sprite,' 

Whom maids by night 
Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
Like him, too, beauty won me, 
But while her eyes were on me, 

If once their ray 

Was turn'd away, 
Oh ! winds could not outrun me. 

And are those follies going ! 
And is my proud heart growing 

Too cold or wise 

For brilliant eyes 
Again to set it glowing ? 
No vain, alas ! the endeavor 
From bonds so sweet to sever ; 

Poor wisdom's chance 

Against a glance 
Is now as weak as ever ! 



WHERE'S THE SLAVE. 

OH ! where's the slave so lowly, 
Condemn'd to chains unholy, 

Who, could he burst 

His bonds at first, 
Would pine beneath them slowly? 
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, 
Would wait till time decay'd it, 

When thus its wing 

At once may spring 
To the throne of Him who made it f 
Farewell, Erin .'farewell all 
Who live to weep our fall ! 

Less dear the laurel growing, 
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing, 






1 This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which ie to be met 
with, they say, in the fields at dunk. As long at yon keej 

oar eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but th 
moment yon look away (and he is ingeniou* in furniihing som 

ndacement) he vanishes. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Than that whose braid 

Is pluck'd to shade 
The brows with victory glowing ! 
We tread the land that bore us, 
Our green flag glitters o'er us, 

The friends we've tried 

Are by our side, 
And the foe we hate before us 1 
Farewell, Erin ! farewell all 
Who live to weep our fall ! 






'TIS GONE, AND FOREVER. 

TIB gone, and forever, the light we saw 

breaking, 

Like heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of 
the dead 

When man, from the slumber of ages awak- 
ing, 

Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray 
ere it fled ! 

'Tis gone and the gleams it has left of its 
burning 

But deepen the long night of bondage and 
mourning 

That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is re- 
turning, 
And, darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee. 

For high was thy hope when those glories 

were darting 
Around thee through all the gross clouds 

of the world ; 
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly 

starting, 
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner un- 

furl'd. 1 
Oh ! never shall earth see a moment so 

splendid ! 
Then, then had one hymn of deliverance 

blended 
The tongues of all nations how sweet had 

ascended 
The first note of liberty, Erin ! from thee. 



i The Sun-burst" was the fancifn! name given by the an- 
cient Irish to the royal banner. 



But, shame on those tyrants who envied the 

blessing ! 
And shame on the light race, unworthy 

its good, 
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furiet, 

caressinsr 

o 

The young hope of Freedom, baptized it 

in blood ! 

Then vanish'd forever that fair sunny vision, 
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's 

derision, 
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and 

elysian, 
As first it arose, my lost Erin ! on thee. 



I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 

I SAW from the beach, when the morning 
was shining, 

O' 

A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ; 
I came when the sun o'er that beach was de- 
clining, 

The bark was still there, but the water* 
were gone ! 

Ah ! such is the fate of our life's early promise, 
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have 

known : 
Each wave that we danced on at morning 

ebbs from us, 

And leaves us at eve on the bleak shore 
alone. 

Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning 
The close of our day, the calm eve of our 

night ; 

Give me back, give me back the wild fresh- 
ness of morning, 

Her clouds and her tears are worth even- 
ing's best light. 

Oh who would not welcome that moment'i 

returning, 
When passion first waked a new Ufa 

through his frame, 
And his soul like the wood that grows 

precious in burning 
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite 
flame ! 



58 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken 

deer ! 
Though the herd have fled from thee, th; 

home is still here ; 
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'er 

cast, 
And the heart and the hand all thy own to 

the last ! 

Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the 

same 
Through joy and through torments, through 

glory and shame ? 
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that 

heart, 
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou 

art! 

Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments 

of bliss, 
Still thy angel I'll be, 'inid the horrors of 

this, 
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps 

to pursue, 
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish 

there too ! 



FILL THE BUMPER FAIKI 

FILL the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 
Wit's electric flame 

Ne'er so swiftly passes, 
As when through the frame 

It shoots from brimming glasses. 
Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 



Sages can, they say, 

Grasp the lightning's pinions, 
And bring down its ray 

From the starr'd dominions ; 



So we, sages, sit, 

And 'mid bumpers bright'iiing. 
From the heaven of w.it 

Draw down all its lightning ! 

Wouldst thou know what first 

Made our souls inherit 
This ennobling thirst 

For wine's celestial spirit ? 
It chanced upon that day, 

When, as bands inform us, 
Prometheus stole away 

The living fires that warm us. 

The careless youth, when up 

To glory's fount aspiring, 
Took nor urn nor cup, 

To hide the pilfer'd fire in ; 
But, oh, his joy ! when, round 

The halls of heaven spying, 
Amongst the stars he found 

A bowl of Bacchus lying. 

Some drops were in the bowl, 

Remains of last night's pleasure, 
With which the sparks of soul 

Mix'd their burning treasure ! 
Hence the goblet's shower 

Hath such spells to win us 
Hence its mighty power 

O'er that flame within us. 
Fill the bumper fair ! 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care 

Smooths away a wrinkle. 



DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY 



)EAR Harp of my country ! in darkness I 

found thee, 
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er 

thee long, 

When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I un- 
bound thee, 
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, 

and song ! 

The warm lay of love and the light note of 
gladness 




COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 






Have waken'cl thy fondest, thy liveliest 

thrill ; 
But so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of 

sadness, 
That even in thy mirth it will steal from 

thee still. 

Dear Harp of my country ! farewell to thy 

numbers, 
This sweet wreath of sons; is the last we 

O 

shall twine ; 
Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy 

slumbers, 
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy 

than mine. 
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 

Has throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; 
I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over, 
And all the wild sweetness I waked was 
thy own. 



REMEMBER THEE. 

REMEMBER thee ! yes, while there's life in 

this heart, 

It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art, 
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy 

showers, 
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest 

hours. 

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glori- 
ous, and free, 

First flower of the earth, and first gem of 
the sea, 

I might hail thee with prouder, with happier 
brow, 

But oh ! could I love thee more deeply than 
now ? 

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as 

it runs, 
But make thee more painfully dear to thy 

sons 
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert 

bird's nest, 
Drink, love in each life-drop that flows from 

thy breast. 



OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER 
TIME ! 

On for the swords of former time ! 

Oh for the men who bore them, 
When arm'd for Right, they stood sublime, 

And tyrants crouch'd before them : 
When pure yet, ere courts began 

With honors to enslave him, 
The best honors worn by Man 

Were those which Virtue gave him. 
Oh for the swords, <fcc., &c. 

Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then ! 

Oh for the pomp that cro\vn'd '.hem, 
When hearts and hands of freeborn men 

Were all the ramparts round them. 
When, safe built on bosoms true, 

The throne was but the centre, 
Round which LOVE a circle drew, 

That Treason durst not enter. 
Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then ! 

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, 
When hearts and hands of freeborn men, 

Were all the ramparts round them ! 



WREATH THE BOWL. 

WREATH the bowl with flowers of soul 

The brightest Wit can find us ; 
We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night. 

And leave dull earth behind us. 
Should Love amid the wreaths be hid, 

That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, 
No danger fear while wine is near, 

We'll drown him if he stings us. 
Then wreath the bowl with flowers of soul 

The brightest Wit can find us ; 
We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night, 

And leave dull earth behind us. 

'Twas nectar fed of old, 'tis said, 

Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; 
And man may brew his nectar too, 

The rich receipt's as follows : 
Take wine like this, let looks of bliss 

Around it well be blended, 
Then bring Wit's beam to warm the stream, 

And there's your nectar splendid ! 



GO 



1'OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



So, wreath the bowl with flowers of soul 
The brightest Wit can find us; 

We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us ! 

Say, why did Time his glass sublime 

Fill up with sands unsightly, 
When wine, he knew, runs brisker through, 

And sparkles far more brightly ? 
Oh, lend it us, and, smiling thus, 

The glass in two. we'll sever, 
Make pleasure glide in double tide, 

And fill both ends forever ! 
Then wreath the bowl with flowers of soul 

The brightest Wit can find us ; 
We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night, 

And leave dull earth behind us. 



THE PARALLEL. 

YES, sad one of SION' if closely resembling, 
In shame and in sorrow, 'thy wither'd-up 

heart 
If drinking deep, deep, of the same " cup of 

trembling" 

O 

Could make us thy children, our parent 
thou art. 

Like theo doth our nation lie conquer'd and 

broken, 
And fallen from her head is the once royal 

crown ; 
In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath 

spoken, 

And "while it is day yet, her inn hath 
gone down.'" 

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of 

returning, 

Die far from the home it were life to be- 
hold ; 
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their 

mourning, 

Remember the bright things that bless'd 
them of old. 



1 These verses v,tre written after Uic perusal of a treatise 
by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were ori<n- 
uolly Jrx>. 

* "Her fun is gone down while ii we yetdny." Jtr. xv. 9. 



Ah, well may we call her like ..ee, " the 

Forsaken,'" 
Her boldest are vanish 'd, her proudest are 

slaves ; 
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest 

they waken, 

Have breathings as sad as the wind over 
graves ! 

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance yet came 

there the morrow, 
That shines out, at last, on the longest 

dark night, 
When the sceptre, that smote thee with 

slavery and sorrow, 

Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy 
sight : 

When that cup, which for others the proud 

Golden City 4 
Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench 'd 

her own lips, 
And the world she had trampled on heard, 

without pity, 

The howl in her halls, and the cry from 
her ships : 

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty 

came over 

Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, 
And, a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to 

cover,' 

The Lady of Kingdoms* lay low in the 
dust. 



OH, YE DEAD ! 

OH, ye Dead ! oh, ye Dead ! whom we know 

by the light you give 
'roni your cold gleaming eyes, though you 

move like men who live, 
Why leave you thus your graves, 
In far-off fields and waves, 



1 "Thou Shalt no more be termed Forsaken." leaiati, 
xii. 4. 

4 " How hath the oppressor ceased 1 the golden city ceased 1" 
Isalnli, xiv. 11. 

"Thy pomp ie brought down to the grave >nd to* 

r orms cover thee." Isaiah, xiv. 4. 

" Thou shall no more be called UK- Lady of Kiugoom*."- 
saiah. xlvli 5. 




POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



61 



Where the worm and the sea-bird only know 

your bed ; 

To haunt this spot where all 
Those eyes that wept your fall, 
And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your 
own, lie dead ? 

It is true it is true we are shadows cold 

and wan ; 
It is true it is true all the friends we loved 

are gone ; 

But oh ! thus even in death, 
So sweet is still the breath 
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we 

wander'd o'er, 
That ere, condemn'd, we go 
To freeze 'mid HECLA'S' snow, 
We would taste it awhile, and dream we 
live once more ! 



O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS. 

OF all the fair months, that round the sun 
In light-link'd dance their circles run, 

Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me ; 
For still, when thy earliest beams arise, 
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, 

Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me. 

Of all the smooth lakes, where day-light 

leaves 
His lingering smile on golden eves, 

Fair Lake, fair Lake, thou'rt dear to me ; 
For when the last April sun grows dim, 
Thy Naiads prepare his steed" for him 
Who dwells, who dwells, bright Lake, in 
thee. 

1 Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some 
part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in 
foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, 
like living people. If asked why they do not return to their 
homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and 
disappear immediately. 

The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohne and 
hie White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of 
Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For 
many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed 
to have been teva on the morning of May-day, gliding over the 
'ake on hi* favorite white horse, to the sound of sweet un- 
earthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maid- 
;ns. who (lung wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in his path. 

Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the 
Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beaufiful girl, 



Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore 
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, 

White Steed, white Steed, most joy to 

thee ; 
Who still, with the first young glance of 

spring, 

From under that glorious lake dost bring 
Proud Steed, proud Steed, my love to me. 

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, 
When newly launch'd, thy long mane* curls, 

Fair Steed, tail Steed, as white and free; 
And spiriv irom all the lake's deep bowers, 
Glide over the blue wave scattering flowers, 

Fair Steed, around my love and thee. 

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, 
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, 

Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, 
Which, under the next May evening's light, 
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, 

Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee. 



SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT. 

SHALL the Harp then be silent, when he who 

first gave 
To our country a name, is withdrawn from 

all eyes ? 
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the 

grave, 

Where the first where the last of her 
Patriots lies ? 

No faint tho' the death-song may fall from 

his lips, 
Though his Harp, like his soul, may with 

shadows be crost, 

Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse, 
And proclaim to the world what a star 
hath been lost ! 4 



whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this 
visionary chieftain, that ?he fancied herself in love with him, 
and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning threw her- 
self into the lake. 

' The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come 
on a windy day, crested with foam, "O'Donohae's whit* 
horses." 

4 It is only the two first verses that are either fitted or m 
tended to be sunn. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



What a union of all the affections and powers 
By which life is exalted, embellish'd, 

refined, 
Was embraced in that spirit whose centre 

was ours, 
While its mighty circumference circled 

mankind. 

Oh, who that loves Erin or who that can see, 
Through the waste of her annals, that 

epoch sublime 

Like a pyramid raised in the desert where he 
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all 
time; 

That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the 

gloom 
And the madness of ages, when fill'd with 

his soul, 
A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her 

doom, 

And for one sacred instant, touch'd Liber- 
ty's goal ? 

Who, that ever hath heard him hath drank 

at the source 

Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, 
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, 

and the force, 

And the yet untamed spring of her spirit 
are shown ? 

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave 
Wander'd free and triumphant, with 

thoughts that shone through, 
As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," 

that gave, 
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. 

Who, that ever approach'd him, when free 

from the crowd, 

In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, 

and which bow'd, 

As if each brought a new civic crown for 
his head 

That home, where like him who, as fable 

hath told,' 

Put the rays from his brow, that his child 
might come near, 

Apollo, in his interview with PhaSton, aa described by 
Ond- Depotmt radios propiusgue aeeedenjuuit." 



Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old 
Became all that the simplest and youngest 
hold dear. 

Is there one, who hath thus, through his or- 
bit of life, 
But at distance observed him through 

glory, through blame, 
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of 

strife, 

Whether shining or clouded, still high and 
the same. 

Such a union of all that enriches life's hour 
Of the sweetness we love, and the great- 
ness we praise, 
As that type of simplicity blended with 

power, 

A child, with a thunderbolt, truly por- 
trays 
Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but 

mourns 
Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such 

glory is shrined 
O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong 

the urns 

Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of 
mankind ! 



OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. 

OH, the sight entrancing, 

When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files, array'd 

With helm and blade, 
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing ! 

When hearts are all hi<rh beatin 

. , , ' 

And the trumpet s voice repeating 

That song, whose breath 

May lead to death, 
But never to retreating. 
Oh, the sight entrancing, 
When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files, array'd 

With helm and blade, 
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing 1 

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather 
For asjc yon despot, whether 



POKMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 






His plumed bands 

Could bring such hands 
And hearts as ours together. 
Leave pomps to those who need 'em 
Adorn but man with freedom, 

And proud he braves 

The gaudiest slaves 
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. 
The sword may pierce the beaver, 
Stone walls in time may sever, 

'Tis heart alone, 

Worth steel and stone, 
That keeps men free forever ! 
Oh, that sight entrancing, 
Whfin morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files, array 'd 

With helm and blade, 
And in Freedom's cause advancing ! 



SWEET INNISFALLEN. 

SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well, 

May calm and sunshine long be thine ! 

How fair thou art let others tell, 
While but to feel how fair is mine ! 

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, 

And long may light around thee smile, 

A)>d soft as on that evening fell, 
When first I saw thy fairy isle ! 

Thou wert too lovely then for one, 
Who had to turn to paths of care 

Who had through vulgar crowds to run, 
And leave thee bright and silent there ; 

No more along thy shores to come, 
But, on the world's dim ocean tost, 

Dream of thee sometimes, as a home 
Of sunshine he had seen and lost ! 

Far better in thy weeping hours 
To part from thee, as I do now, 

When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers 
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. 

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, 
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, 

But, in thy shadow, seem'st a place 

Where weary man might hope to rest 



Might hope to rest, and find in thee 
A gloom like Eden's, on the day 

He left its shade, when every tree, 

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way ! 

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle ! 

And still the lovelier for thy tears 
For though but rare thy sunny smile, 

'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears. 

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, 
But, when indeed they come, divine 

The steadiest light the sun e'er threw 
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! 



'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS. 

'TWAS one of those dreams, that by music 

are brought, 
Like a light summer haze, o'er the poet's 

warm thought 

When, lost in the future, his soul wanders or., 
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone. 

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were 

those, 
To which he had sung Erin's bondage and 

woes, 
And the breath of the bugle now wafted 

them o'er 
From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded 

shore. 

He listen'd while, high o'er the eagle's rude 

nest, 
The lingering sounds on their way loved to 

rest ; 
And the echoes sung back from their full 

mountain choir, 
As if loth to let song so enchanting expire. 

It seem'd as if ev'ry sweet note, that died here, 
Was again brought to life in some airier 

sphere, 
Some heaven in those hills, where the soul 

of the strain 
That had ceased upon earth was awaking 

again ! 



S-1 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Oh forgive, if, while listening to music 

whose breath 
Bceni'd to circle his name with a charm 

against death, 
He should feel a proud Spirit within him 

proclaim, 
" Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of 

Fame: 

" Even so, though thy memory should now 

die away, 
'Twill be caught up again in some happier 



And the hearts and the voice of Erin prolong 
Through the answering Future, thy nam 
and thy song !" 



FAIREST ! PUT ON AWHILE. 

FAIREST ! put on awhile 

These pinions of light I bring thee, 
And o'er thy own green isle 

In fancy let me wing thee. 
Never did Ariel's plume, 

At golden sunset hover 
Above such scenes of bloom, 

As I shall waft thee over ! 

Fields, where the Spring delays 

And fearlessly meets the ardor 
Of the warm Summer's gaze 

With only her tears to guard her. 
Rocks, through myrtle boughs 

In grace majestic frowning 
Like a bold warrior's brows 

That Love has just been crowning. 

Islets, so freshly fair, 

That never hath bird come nigh them 
But from his course through air 

He hath been won down by them, 1 

Types, sweet maid, of thee, 

Whose look, whose blush, inviting, 
Never did Love yet see 

From heaven, without alighting. 

' In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth) 
Ke h atl ?=, ea >' 8 ' " There "> rtain attractive virtue in the 

>' wh,ch draws down all the bird, that attempt to By over 

X And obhgus them to lighfupon the rock." 



Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,* 

And caves, where the diamond's sleeping, 
Bright as the gems thy lid 

Or snow lets fall in weeping. 
Glens,' where Ocean comes, 

To 'scape the wild wind's rancor, 
And Harbors, worthiest homes 

Where Freedom's fleet could anchor. 

Then, if, while scenes so grand, 

So beautiful, shine before thee, 
p ride for thy own dear land 

Should haply be stealing o'er thee, 
Oh, let grief come first, 

O'er pride itself victorious 
Thinking how man hath curst 

What Heaven hath made so glorious ! 



AS VANQUISH'D ERIN. 

As vanquish'd ERIN wept beside 

The Boyne's ill-fated river, 
She saw where Discord, in the tide, 

Had dropp'd his loaded quiver. 
" Lie hid," she cried, " ye venom'd darts, 

Where mortal eye may shun you ; 
Lie hid for oh ! the stain of hearts 

That bled for me is on you." 

But vain her wish, her weeping vain, 

As time too well hath taught her 
Each year the Fiend returns again, 

And dives into that water ; 
And brings, triumphant, from beneath 

His shafts of desolation, 
And sends them, wing'd with worse than 
death, 

Through all her madd'ning nation. 

Alas for her who sits and mourns, 

Even now beside that river 
Unwearied still the Fiend returns, 

And stored is still his quiver. 



1 " Nennius. a British writer of the ninth century, mention, 
he abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their prince* he av. 
ung them behind Iheir ears ; and this we find confirmed "by 
present made A. c. 1094. by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick to 
nselm. Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable oa<n 
ty of Irish pearla."-0'//<tftonai. 
Glengariff. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



65 



" When will this end, ye Powers of God ?" 

She weeping asks forever ; 
But only hears from out that flood, 

The Demon answer, " Never I" 



DESMOND'S SONG. 1 

BY the Feal's wave benighted, 

Not a star in the skies, 
To thy door by Love lighted, 

I first saw those eyes. 
Some voice whisper'd o'er me 

As the threshold I crost, 
There was ruin before me, 

If I loved, I was lost. 

Love came, and brought sorrow 

Too soon in his train ; 
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 

'Twere welcome again. 
Though misery's full measure 

My portion should be, 
I would drain it with pleasure, 

If pour'd out by thee. 

You, who call it dishonor 

To bow to this flame, 
If you've eyes, look but on her, 

And blush while you blame. 
Hath the pearl less whiteness 

Because of its birth ? 
Hath the violet less brightness 

For growing near earth ? 

No Man for his glory, 

To ancestry flies ; 
While Woman's bright story 

Is told in her eyes. 
While the Monarch but traces 

Through mortals his line, 
Beauty, born of the Graces, 

Ranks next to Divine ! 



1 "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accident- 
ally been so engaged In the chase, that he was benighted near 
Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, In the 
honse of one of his dependents, called MacCormac. Cathe- 
rine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the 
Earl with a violent passion, which he conld not subdue. He 
married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his follow- 
ers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of lii love 
u ait unpardonable degradation of his family." Leiand. vol. 11. 



I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE. 

I WISH I was by that dim Lake, 1 
Where sinful souls their farewell take 
Of this vain world, and half-way lie 
In death's cold shadow, ere they die. 
There, there, far from thee, 
Deceitful world, my home should be 
Where, come what might of gloom and pain, 
False hope should ne'er deceive again ! 

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound 

Of unseen waters falling round 

The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head, 

Like man, unquiet even when dead 

These aye these shall wean 

My soul from life's deluding scene, 

And turn each thought, each wish I have, 

Like willows, downward toward the grave. 

As they, who to their couch at night 
Would win repose, first quench the light, 
So must the hopes, that keep this breast 
Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest. 
Cold, cold, my heart must grow, 
Unchanged by either joy or woe, 
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown 
Within their current turns to stone. 



SONG OF INNISFAIL. 

THEY came from a land beyond the sea, 
And now o'er the western main 

Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, 
From the sunny land of Spain. 



1 These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of 
superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. " In the midst ol 
these gloomy regions of Donegal! (says Dr. Campbell) lay a 
lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled 
and intermediate state. In the lake were several Islands ; but 
one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Pur- 
gatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all 
Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims 
from almost every country in Europe." 

" It was," as the same writer tells us, "one of tin: most diu- 
rnal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through 
deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending 
rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark 
caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind 
however gay, is, from strange association, wont to approprlaM 
to such gloomy scenes." Strictures on tlu Juxlaiaitical and 
Literary Olttory qf Inland. 



6(5 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



" Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams, 
Our destined home or grave ?" ' 

Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams, 
They swept the Atlantic wave. 

And lo, where afar o'er ocean shines 

A sparkle of radiant green, 
As though in that deep lay emerald mines, 

Whose light through the wave was seen. 
" "Tis Innisfail' 'tis Innisfail !" 

Rings o'er the echoing sea, 
While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail 

That home of the brave and free. 

Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave, 

Where now their Day-god's eye 
A look of such sunny omen gave 

As lighted up sea and sky. 
Nor frown was seen through sky or sea, 

Nor tear on leaf or sod, 
When first on their Isle of Destiny 

Our Eastern fathers trod. 



OH! ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRAN- 
MORE. 

OH ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, 

How oft I dream of thee, 
And of those days when, by thy shore, 

I wander'd young and free. 
Full many a path I've tried, since then, 

Through pleasure's flowery maze, 
But ne'er could find the bliss again 

I felt in those sweet days. 

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs 

At sunny morn I've stood, 
With heart as bounding as the skiffs 

That danced along thy flood; 
Or, when the western wave grew bright 

With daylight's parting wing, 
Have sought that Eden in its light 

Which dreaming poets sing ;' 



1 " Milesins remembered the remarkable prediction of the 
principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Oadehu 
should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was 
Ireland), and there inhabit." Keating. 

1 The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland. 

1 " The inhabitants of Arraamore are still persuaded that, 
IB a clear day, they can nee from thl coaet Hy BrysaU or the 



That Eden, where the immortal brave 

Dwell in a land serene, 
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, 

At sunset, oft are seen. 
Ah, dream too full of sadd'ning truth ! 

Those mansions o'er the main 
Are like the hopes I built in youth, 

As sunny and as vain ! 



LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. 

LAY his sword by his side* it hath served 

him too well 

Not to rest near his pillow below ; 
To the last moment true, from his hand ere 

it fell, 

Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe. 
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in 

death, 
Side by side, as becomes the reposing 

brave, 
That sword which he loved still unbroke in 

its sheath, 
And himself unsubdued in his grave. 

Yet pause for, in fancy, a still voice I hear. 
As if breathed from his brave heart's re- 
mains ; 

Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, 
Once sounded the war-word " Burst your 

chains !" 
And it cries, from the grave where the hero 

lies deep, 
" Though the day of your Chieftain forever 

hath set, 
Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to 

sleep, 
It hath victory's life in it yet ! 

" Should some alien, unworthy such weapon 
to wield, 

Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, 
Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd, 

Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. 



Enchanted Wand, the Paradise of the Pagan Irian, and con- 
cerning which they relate a number of romantic stories." 
Beaufort's Ancient Topography of Ireland. 

* It was the custom of the ancient Irish, In the manner of 
the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their hro 
along with them. 





lut, if graspM by a hand that hath known 

the bright use 

Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle- 
plain 
'hen, at Liberty's summons, like lightning 

let loose, 
Leap forth from thy dark sheath again !" 



THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING. 

THE wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall, 1 
And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining, 

O' 

Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall, 
Where his falchion hangs idly shining. 
When, hark ! that shout 
From the vale without, 
" Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is 

nigh !" 

Every Chief starts up 
From his foaming cup, 
And " To battle, to battle," is the Finian's 
cry. 

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, 

And they sing such thrilling numbers 
Oh ! 'tis like the voice of the Dead, of old, 
Breaking forth from their place of slumbers ! 
Spear to buckler rang 
As the minstrels sang, 
And the Sun-burst* o'er them floated wide ; 
While rememb'ring the yoke 
Which their fathers broke, 
" On for liberty, for liberty !" the Finians 
cried. 

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, 

O'er the valley of Almhin lowering ; 
While onward moved, in the light of its fame, 
That banner of Erin, towering. 
With the mingling shock 
Ring cliff and rock, 
i While, rank on rank, the invaders die : 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOoKK. 



67 



1 The Palace of Fin MacCumhal (the Fingal of Macphereon) 
In Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has re- 
tained from thence the uame of the Hill of Allen, in the County 
of Kildare The Finians, or Fenli. were the celebrated Na- 
tional M ilitia of Ireland, which this Chief commanded. The 
introduction of the Danes in the above song Is an anachronism 
common to most of the Finiau and Ossianic legends. 

> Th name given to the banner of the Irish. 



And the shout, that last 
O'er the dying pass'd, 
Was "victory!'' was "victory! 1 the 
Finian's cry. 



OH! COULD WE DO WITH THIS : 
WORLD OF OURS. 

OH ! could we do with this world of ours 
As thou dos 4 with thy garden bowers, 
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, 

What a heaven on earth we'd make it I 
So bright a dwelling should be our own, 
So warranted free from sigh or frown, 
That angels soon would be coming down, 

By the week or month to take it. 

Like those gay flies that wing through air 
And in themselves a lustre bear, 
A stock of light, still ready there, 

Whenever they wish to use it ; 
So, in this world I'd make for thee, 
Our hearts should all like fireflies be, 
And the flash of wit or poesy 

Break forth whenever we choose it. 

While every joy that glads our sphere 
Hath still some shadow hovering near, 
In this new world of ours, my dear, 

Such shadows will all be omitted : 
Unless they are like that graceful one, 
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun, 
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon 

Each spot where it hath flitted ! 



THE DREAM OF THOSE DATS.' 

THE dream of those days when first I sung 
thee is o'er, 

Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sor 
rows then wore, 

And even of the light which Hope once shed 
o'er thy chains 

Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom re- 
mains. 



> Written In one of those moods of hopelessness and dis- 
gust which come occasionally over the mind, in contenpla- 
I ting the present state of Irish patriotism. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



ay, is it ihat slavery sunk BO deep in thy 

heart, 
That still the dark brand is there, though 

chainless thou art ; 
And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy 

spirit long burn'd, 
Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath 

turn'd ? 

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence 
led, 

With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud 
was thy tread ! 

Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that sum- 
mit to gain, 

Or died in the porch, than thus dishonor the 
fane. 



SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS. 1 

SILENCE is in our festal halls, 
O Son of Song ! thy course is o'er ; 

In vain on thee sad Erin calls, 
Her minstrel's voice responds no more ; 



1 It Is hardly necessary, perhaps, to Inform the reader, that 
these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the 

*emory of in old and valued colleaenc In this wn-k, Sir John 



All silent as the Eolian shell 

Sleeps at the close of some bright day, 
When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell 

At sunny morn, hath died away. 

Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long, 

Awaked by music's spell, shall rise ; 
For, name so link'd with deathless song 

Partakes its charm and never dies : 
And even within the holy fane, 

When music wafts the soul to heaven, 
One thought to him, whose earliest strain 

Was echo'd there, shall long be given. 

But, where is now the cheerful day, 

The social night, when, by thy side, 
He, who now weaves this parting lay, 

His skilless voice with thine allied ; 
And sung those songs whose every tone, 

When bard and minstrel long have past, 
Shall still, in sweetness all their own, 

Embalm'd by fame, undying last ? 

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, 

Or, if thy bard have shared the crown 
From thee the borrow'd glory came, 

And at thy feet is now laid down. 
Enough, if Freedom still inspire 

His latest song, and still there be, 
As evening closes round his lyre, 

One ray upon its chords from thee. 



LALLA ROOKH. 



Ix the eleventh year of the reign of Anrnngzebe, Abdalla, 
King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the 
Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favor of his son, 
set oat on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet, and, 
passing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, 
rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was enter- 
tained by Anrnngzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, 
worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterward 
escorted with the same splendor to Surat, where he embarked 
for Arabia. Daring the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a 
marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and 
the youngest daughter of the Emperor, Lalla Eookh 1 a 
orincess described by the poets of her time as more beautiful 
than Leila, Shirine, Dewilde, or any of those heroines whose 
names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. 
It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at 
Cashmere ; where the young King, as soon as the cares of the 
tmpire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his 
lovely bride, and, after a few months* repose in that enchant- 
ing valley, conduct her over the snowy hihs into Bucharia. 

The day of Lalla Hooka's departure from Delhi was a* 
splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The 
bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry ; 
hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with their 
banners shining in the water ; while through the streets 
groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicioas 
flowers around, as in that Persian festival called Gul Reazee, 
or the Scattering of the Roses, till every part of the city was 
as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed 
through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind 
father, who at parting hong a cornelian of Yemen round her 
neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran, and 
having Bent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept 
up tne perpetual lamp in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended 
the palankeen prepared for her ; and, while Aurungzebe stood 
to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved 
slowly on the road to Lahore. 

Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so snperb. 
From the gardens in the suburbs to the imperial palace it was 
one unbroken line of splendor. The gallant appearance of the 
Rajahs ard Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of 
the Emperor's favor,' the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in 
their turbans, and the small silver-rimmed kettle-drums at the 
bows of their paddles ; the costly armor of their Cavaliers, 
who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder 
Khan,' in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the 

> Tulip Cheek. 

' "One mark of honor or knighthood bestowed by the em- 
peror is the permission to wear a small kettle-drum at the 
,fcows of their saddles, which at first was invented for the 
raining of hawks, and is worn in the field by all sports- 
men for that end." Fryer's Travels. 

" Those on whom the king has conierred the privilege 
mast wear an ornament of jewels on the right side of the tur- 
ban, surmounted by a high plume of the feathers of a kind of 
tgnVElphinsUme't Account of Cauoul. 

* Khedar Khan, the TThair n or King of Turqnestan, be- 



massiness of their maces of gold ; the glittering of the giM 
pineapples,* on the tops of the palankeens ; the embroidered 
trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs small 
turrets, in the shape 01 little antique temples, within which 
the ladies of Lalla Rookh lay, as it were enshrined : the rose- 
colored veils of the Princess's own sumptuous litter." at the 
front of which fair young female slave sat iauning her 
through the curtains with feathers of the Argus pheasant's* 
wing; and the lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashmerian 
maids of honor, whom the young King had sent to accompany 
his bride, ana who rode on each side of the litter, upon small 
Arabian hnrses ; all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, 
and pleasoa even the critical and fastidious Fadladeen, Great 
Nazir or Chamberlain of the llaram, who was borne in his 
palankeen immediately after the Princess, and considered him- 
self nt the least important personage of the pageant. 

Fadladeen was a judge of everything, from the pencilling 
of a Circassian's eyelids to the deepest questions of science 
and literature ; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leaves- 
to the composition of an epic poem : and such influence had> 
his opinion upon the various tastes of the day tha; .j the 
cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political 
conduct and opinions were founded upon that lint 1 if Sadi, 
"ahonld the Prince at noonday say, 'It is night,' ueclare that 
yon behold the moon and stars." And his zeal for religion, 
of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector,' was about 



yond the Gihon (at the end of the eleventh century,) when- 
ever he appeared abroad was preceded by seven bundled 
horsemen with silver battle-axes, and was followed by an 
equal number bearing maces of gold." Richardson's Disser- 
tation pretiJ-ed to Ms Dictionary, 

4 " The kubdeh, a large golden knob, generally in the shape 
of a pineapple, on the top of the canopy over the litter or 
palanquin." Scott's Notes on the Bahardanush. 

In the poem of Zohair, In the Moallakat, there is the 
following lively description of " a company of maidens seated 
on camels:" 

" They are mounted in carriages covered with costly awn 
Ings and with rose-colored veils, the linings of which hare 
the hue of crimson Andemwood. 

" When they ascend from the bosom of the vale, they Bit 
forward on the saddle-cloths with every mark of a voluptuoa* 
gayety. 

" Now, when they have reached the brink of yon blue gash- 
ing rivnlet, they fix the poles of their tents like the Arabs 
with a settled mansion." 

This hypocritical emperor would have made a wwthj 
associate of certain Holy Leagues. " He held the cloak ot 
religion," says Dow, "between his actions and the vulgar; 
and impiously thanked the Divinity for a success which ha 
owed to his own wickedness. When he was moidering and 
persecuting his brothers and their families, he was building a 
magnificent mosque at Delhi, as an offering to God for Hi* 
assistance to him in the civil wars. He acted as high priest 
at the consecration of this temple; and nude a practice at 
attending divine service there, in the humble dieas of 



70 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



AS disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell In love with 
the diamond eyeo of the idol of Jngghemaut. 1 

During the first days of their journey, Lalla Rookh. who 
Dad passed all her life within the shadow of the royal gardens 
of Delhi, found enough in the beanty of the scenery through 
which they passed to interest hr mind, and delight her im 
gination ; and when, at evening or in the heat of the day 
they turned off from the high road to those retired anc 
<romantic places which had been selected for her encamp 
ments, sometimes on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear as 
the waters of the Lake of Pearl ;* sometimes under the sacred 
ehade of a Banian tree, from which the view opened upon a 
glade covered with antelopes; and often in those hidden, 
embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the 
West,' as " places of melancholy, delight, and safety, where 
all the company around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves, 
she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so new to 
her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other 
amusement. Bnt Lalla Rookh was young, and the young love 
variety ; nor could the conversation of her ladles and the great 
chamberlain, Fadladeen, (the only persons, of course, admitted 
to her pavilion,) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, 
which were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. 
There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the vina, 
and who, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the 
ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wamak and 
Ezra, 1 the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver ; not for- 
getting the combat of Rustam with the terrible White Demon. 
At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls 
of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Brahmins of the 
Great Pagoda to attend her. much to the horror of the good 
Mussulman, Fadladeen, who could see nothing graceful or 
agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tingling of their 
golden anklets' was aa abomination. 
Bnt these and many other diversions were repeated till they 



fakeer. But when he lifted one hand to the Divinity, he with 
the other signed warrants for the assassination of hl rela- 
tions." History of Hlndostan, vol. iii., p. 235. See also the 
carious letter of Anrungzebe given In the Oriental Collections 
vol. i., p. 320. 

1 " The idol at Jaghernat has two fine diamonds for eyes. 
No goldsmith is suffered to enter. the pagoda: one having 
stolen one of these eyes, being locked up all night with the 
idol." Tavernier. 

" In the neighborhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pearl, 
which receives this name from its pellucid water." Pennant's 
Hindoztan. 

' Sir Thomas Roe, ambassador from James I. to Jehanguire. 

" The Romance Wamakweazra, written in Persian verse^ 

which contains the loves of W.imak and Ezra, two celebrated 

lovern who lived before the time of Mohammed "Note on the 

Oriental Tales. 

There is much beanty in the passage which describes the 
slaves of Rodahver sitting on the bank of the river and throw- 
Ing flowers into the stream in order to draw the attention of 
the young hero who is encamped on the opposite side. Vide 
" Champion's Translation of the Shah Namfih of Ferdousi " 

Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. For the partlcn- 
lrs of his victory over the Sspeed Deeve, or White Demon 
see Oriental Collections, vol. ii., p. 45. Near the city of Shiraz 
is an immense quadrangular monument in commemora- 



his 



tion of this combat, called the Kelaat-i-Deev Sepeed " 
Castle of the White Giant, which Father Angeto in 
Oazophylanum Persicum, p. 12 r, declares to have been the 
Bt memorable monument of antiquity which.he had seen in 
;rsia. Vide "Onseley's Persian Miscellanies " 

' "i T H 6 W , meD f the id U or dancing-girls of the Pagoda 
have little golden bells fastened to their feet, the soft hanm> 
emus tinkling of which vibrates in unison with the exuisi 

" 



son with the exquisite 
" 



e ex 

melody of their voices."-J/ari's Indian AntlquitUs. 
r 



Arabian 



The 



. 

princesses wear golden rings on their fingers to 
which httle bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing 

* th0ir 9Uperior nk m * """" " 



- ' 
Calmet's Dictionary," rt. StUi. 



lost all their charm, and the nights and noondays were begin- 
ning to move heavily, when at length, it was recollected that, 
among the attendants sent by the bridegroom, was a youn/r, 
poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the va ley for 
his manner of reciting the stories of the East, on whom nil 
royal master had conferred the privilege of being admitted to 
the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile th* 
tediousness of the journey by Borne of his most agreeable re- 
citals. At the mention of a poet, Fadladeen elevated hit 
critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a 
dose of that delicious opium,* which is distilled from the 
black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to be 
forthwith Introduced into the presence. 

The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from be- 
hind the screens of gauze in her father's hall, and had con- 
ceived from that specimen no very favorable ideas of the cast 
expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her; 
she felt Inclined however to alter her opinion on the very first 
appearance of Feramorz. He was a youth about Lalla Rookh'i 
own age, and graceful as that idol of woman, Chrishn* (the 
Indian Apollo),' such as he appears to their young imagina- 
tions, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eye*, 
and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. HI* 
dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness, 
and the ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering 
that the cloth which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of 
the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply. 
Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a 
flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, dis- 
posed with an air of studied negligence ; nor did the exquisite 
embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these 
fair critics ; who, however they might give way to Fadladeen 
upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had 
the spirit of martyrs in everything relating to such momentous 
matters as jewels and embroidery. 
For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by 

music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar, such 

as, in old times, the Arab maids of the west used to listen to 
by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra, and, haviag 
premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to 
relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet 
of Khorassan." who, in the year of the Hegira 163, created 
such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance 
to the Princess, and thus began : 

THE VEILED PROPHET OF 
KHORASSAN." 

IN that delightful Province of the Suri, 
The first of Persian lands he shines upon, 
Where, all the loveliest children of his beam. 

T^i * A _ " 9 



Flowerets and fruits blush 
stream," 



over 



every 



1 " Abon-Tige. ville de la Thebalde, oil 11 croit beanconp de 
pavot noir, dont se fait le meillenr opium." D'Herbelot. 

" He and the three Ramas are described as youths of pep- 
feet beanty; and the Princesses of Hindustan were all pas- 
sionately in love with Crisbna, who continues to this hour the 
darling god of the Indian women." Sir W. Jones, on the aodt 
of Greece, Italy, and India. 

" For the real history of this impostor, whose original name 
was Hakera ben Haschem, and who was called Mokanna from 
the veil of silver gauze (or, as others say, golden) which he 
always wore, vide D'Herbelot. 

" "Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language. 
Province or Region of the Sun." 

" "The fruits of Mem are finer than those of any other 

ice ; and one cannot see in any other city such palaces 
with groves, and streams, and gardens." Son HautaTi 
Geography. 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



71 



And fairest of all streams, the Murga roves 
Among MerouV bright palaces and 

groves , 
There on that throne, to which the blind 

belief 

Of millions raised him, sat the Prophet- 
Chief, 
The Great Mokanna. O'er his features 

hung 

The veil, the silver veil, which he had flung 
In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight 
His dazzling brow, till man could bear its 

light 

For, far less luminous, his votaries said,' 
Were even the gleams miraculously shed 
O'er MoussaV cheek, when down the Mount 

he trod, 
All glowing from the presence of his God ! 

On either side, with ready hearts and hands, 
His chosen guard of bold Believers stands ; 
Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their 

swords, 
On points of faith, more eloquent than 

words ; 
And such their zeal, there's not a youth with 

brand 

Uplifted there, but, at the Chief's command, 
Would make his own devoted heart its 

sheath, 
And bless the lips that doom'd so dear a 

death ! 

In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night,* 
Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy 

white ; 
Their weapons various some equipp'd for 

speed, 

With javelins of the light Kathaian reed;' 
Or bows of bufialo horn, and shining quivers 



1 One of the royal cities of Khorassan. 

1 "Ses^lisciples assuroient qu'il se couvrott le visage pour 
ne pas eblmiir ceux qnl 1'approchoit par 1'eclat de son visage, 
eoirme Moyie." D'Herbelot. 

Moses. 

Black was the color adopted by the Caliphs of the House 
*f Abbas, in their garments, turbans, and standards. 

" II faut remarquer icl touchant les habits Wanes des 
disciple* de Hakem. qae la couleur des habits, des coiffures, et 
des . tendardi des Khalifas Abassides etant la noire, ce chef de 
relKlles ne pouvoit pas choisir une qui lui fut pins op- 
fotce." D" Herijelot. 

''Our dark javelins, exquisitely wrought of Kathaian 
j, (lender and delicate." Poem QfAmru. 



Fill'd with the stems" that bloom on Iran'i 
rivers ;' 

While some, for war's more terrible attacks, 

Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle- 
axe; 

And as they wave aloft in morning's beam 

The milk-white plumage of their helms, they 
seem 

Like a chenar-tree grove,* when winter 
throws 

O'er all its tufted heads his feathering 
snows. 

Between the porphyry pillars that uphold 
The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold, 
Aloft the Haram's curtain'd galleries rise, 
Where, through the silken net-work, glan- 
cing eyes, 
From time to time, like sudden gleams that 

glow 
Through autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp 

below. 
What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, 

would dare 
To hint that aught but Heaven had p.<iv,c! 

you there ? 
Or that the loves of this light world could 

bind 
In their gross chain your Prophet's soaring 

mind ? 
No wrongful thought ! commission'd from 

above 
To people Eden's bowers with shapes of 

love, 
(Creatures so bright, that the same lips and 

eyes 

They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,) 
There to recline among Heaven's native 

maids, 
And crown the Elect with bliss that never 

fades ! 
Well hath the Prophet-Chief his bidding 

done ; 



* PichHla, used anciently for arrows by the Persians. 

* The Persians call this plant Qaz. The celebrated shaft of 
Isfendiar, one of their ancient heroes, was made of It. 
" Nothing can be more beautiful than the appearance of thli,, 
plant in flower during the rains on the banks of rnors, whert. 
It Is usually interwoven with a lovely twining asclepias." Sir 
W. Jones, Botanical Observations. 

* The oriental plane. "The chenar is a delightful tree; 
its bole is of a fine white and smooth bart and its foliage, 
which grows in a tuft at the summit, la of a ar'ght greei." 
Morier's Travels. 



72 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And every beauteous race beneath the sun, 
From those who kneel at Brahma's burning 

founts;' 
To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er Yemen's 

mounts ; 

From Persia's eyes of full and fawn-like ray 
To the small, half-shut glances of Kathay ;* 
And Georgia's bloom, and Azab's darker 

smiles, 

And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles ; 
All, all are there ; each land its flower hath 

given, 
To form that fair young nursery for 

Heaven ! 

But why this pageant now? this arm'd 

array ? 

What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day 
With turban'd heads of every hue and race 
Bowing before that veil'd and awful face, 
Like tulip-beds of different shape and dyes' 
Bending beneath the invisible west-wind 

sighs ? 
What new-made mystery now for Faith to 

sign 

And blood to seal as genuine and divine, 
What dazzling mimicry of God's own 

power 
Hath the bold Prophet plann'd to grace this 

hour? 
lot such the pageant now, though not less 

proud, 
Yon warrior youth advancing from the 

crowd 
With silver bow, with belt of b'roider'd 

crape, 

And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape,' 
So fiercely beautiful in form and eye, 
Like war's wild planet in a summer sky 
That youth to-day, a proselyte, worth 

hordes 
Of cooler spirits and less practised 

swords, 



i " Near Chittagong, esteemed as holy." 

China. 

" The name of tulip is said to be of Turkish extraction, 
and given to the flower on account of its resembling a 
turban." Beckman's History qf Inventions. 

" The inhabitants of Bucharia wear a round cloth bonnet 
haped ranch after the Polish fashion, having a large fnr 
border. They tie theii^kaftans about the middle with a girdle 
f a kind of silk crape, several times round the body " 
tukfendmt Tartary, in PinhtrUmi Col. 



Is come to join, all bravery and belief, 
The creed and standard of the Heaven -sent 
Chief. 

Though few his years, the West already 

knows 
Young Azim's fame ; beyond the Olympian 

snows, 

Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek, 
O'erwhelm'd in fight and captive to the 

Greek, 
He linger'd there till peace dissolved hit 

chains. 
Oh ! who could, even in bondage, tread the 

plains 

Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise 
Kindling within him ? who, with heart and 

eyes, 

Could walk where Liberty had been, nor see 
The shining foot-prints of her Deity, 
Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air, 
Which mutely told her spirit had been there? 
Not he, that youthful warrior, no, too well 
For his soul's quiet work'd the awakening 

spell ; 

And now, returning to his own dear land, 
Full of those dreams of good that, vainly 

grand, 
Haunt the young heart; proud view<s of 

human-kind, 
Of men to gods exalted and refined ; 
False views like that horizon's fair deceit, 
Where earth and heaven but seem, alas, to 

meet 1 

Soon as he heard an arm divine was raised 
To right the nations, and beheld, emblazed 
On the white flag Mokanna's host unfurl'd, 
Those words of sunshine, " Freedom to the 

World," 

At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey'd 
The inspiring summons ; every chosen blade 
That fought beneath that banner's sacred text 
Seem'd doubly edged, for this world and the 

next; 

And ne'er did Faith with her smooth band- 
age bind 

Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind 
fn Virtue's cause never was soul inspired 
With livelier trust in what it most desired, 
Than his, the enthusiast there, who kneeling 

pale 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



73 



With pious awe, before that silver veil, 
Believes the form to which he bends his knee 
Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free 
This fetter'd world from every bond and 

stain, 
And bring its primal glories back again ! 

Low as young Azim knelt, that motley 

crowd 
Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and 

bow'd. 
With shouts of " Alia !" echoing long and 

loud; 

While high in air, above the Prophet's head, 
Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam 

spread, 
Waved like the wings of the white birds 

that fan 

The flying throne of star-taught Soliman !' 
Then thus he spoke: "Stranger, though 

new the frame 
Thy soul inhabits now, I've track'd its 

flame 
Foi many an age, 1 in every chance and 

change 
Of that existence through whose varied 

range, 
As through a torch-race, where, from hand 

to hand 
The flying youths transmit their shining 

brand, 
From frame to frame the unextinguish'd 

soul 
Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal ! 

" Nor think 'tis only the gross spirits, 

warm'd 
With duskier fire and for earth'fc medium 

forin'd, 
That run this course; beings the most 

divine 
Thus deign through dark mortality to shine. 



1 This wonderful tbrone was called the " Star of the Genii." 
When Solomon travelled, the eastern writers say, ''tie had a 
carpet of green silk on which his throne was placed, being of 
l>rou irious length and breadth, and sufficient lor all his 
forces to stand upon, the men placing themselves' on his right 
nand and the spirits on his left ; and that when all were in 
order, the wind, at his command, took np the carpet, and 
transported it with all that were npon it, wherever he pleased ; 
the army of birds at the same time flying over their heads, 
tnd forming a kind of canopy to shade them from the sun." 
-BaU't Koran, TO!. 11., p. 814, note. 

' " The transmigration of sonls wai one of hit doctilnes." 



Such was the Essence that in Adam dwelt, 
To which all heaven, except the Proud One, 

knelt:' 

Such the refined Intelligence that glow'd 
In Moussa's frame and, thence descending, 

fow'd 
Through many a prophet's breast 4 in Issa* 

shone, 

And in Mohammed burn'd ; till, hastening on, 
(As a bright river that, from fall to fall 
In many a maze descending, bright through 

all, 
Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth 

past, 

In one full lake of light it rests at last !) 
That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free 
From lapse or shadow, centres all in me !" 

Again, throughout the assembly at these 

words, 
Thousands of voices rung: the warriors' 

swords 

Were pointed up to heaven ; a sudden wind 
In the open banners play'd, and from behind 
Those Persian hangings that but ill could 

screen 
The Haram's loveliness, white hands were 

seen 
Waving embroider'd scarves, whose motion 

gave 
A perfume forth like those the Houris 

wave 

When beckoning to their bowers the immor- 
tal brave 

"But these," pursued the Chief, "are 

truths sublime, 

That claim a holier mood and calmer time 
Than earth allows us now; this sword 

must first 
The darkling prison-house of mankind burst, 



And when we said unto the angels. "Worship Adam," 
they all worshipped him except Eblis, (Lucifer,) who refused 
The Koran, chap. 11. 

4 This is according to D'Herbelot's account of the doctrines 
of Mokanna : " Sa doctrine etoit qne Dien avolt prii nne 
forme et figure hnmaine depnis qu'il ent commands aux 
Anges d'adorer Adam, le premier des homines. Qn' aprds la 
mort d'Adam, Dien etoit apparn sons la figure de plusieura 
prophetes, et antres grands homines, qu'il avoit choisia, 
jusqn'a ce qu'il prit celle d'Abn Moslem, Prince de Khoransan.. 
Icqnel professoit I'errenr de la Tenassukhlah, on Metempsj- 
daoc e ; et qu' apres la mort de ce Prince, ! Divinll e etoil 
passee, et deccendue en sa pereonne." 

Jeins. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in 
Her wakening daylight on a world of sin ! 
But then, celestial warriors, then when all 
Earth's shrines and thrones before our ban- 
ner fall ; 
When the glad slave shall at these feet lay 

down 

His broken chain, the tyrant lord his crown, 
The priest his book, the conqueror his 

wreath, 
And from the lips of truth one mighty 

breath 

Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze 
That whole dark pile of human mockeries ; 
Then shall the reign of Mind commence on 

earth, 

And starting fresh as from a second birth, 
Man, in the sunshine of the world's new 

spring, 

Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing ! 
Then, too, your . Prophet from his angel 

brow 
Shall cast the veil that hides its splendors 

now, 
And gladden'd Earth shall, through her 

wide expanse, 
Bask in the glories of this countenance ! 

" For thee, young warrior, welcome ! 

thou hast yet 

Borne tasks to learn, some frailties to forget, 
Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can 

wave; 
But, once my own, mine all till in the 

grave !" 

The pomp is at an end, the crowds are 

gone- 
Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone 
Of that deep voice which thrill'd like Alla's 

own ! 
The young all dazzled by the plumes and 

lances, 

The glittering throne, and Haram's half- 
caught glances ; 
The old deep pondering on the promised 

reign 

Of peace and truth ; and all the female train 
Ready to risk their eyes could they but 

gaze 
A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze ! 



But there was one, among the chosen 
maids 

Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken 
shades, 

One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day 

Has been like death ; you saw her pale dis- 
may, 

Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the 
burst 

Of exclamation from her lips, when first 

She saw that youth, too well, too dearly 
known, 

Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne. 

Ah Zelica ! there was a time when bliss 
Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his; 
When but to see him, hear him, breathe the 

air 
In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest 

prayer ! 
When round him hung such a perpetual 

spell, 

Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. 
Too happy days! when, if he touch'd * 

flower 
Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that 

hour; 

When thou didst study him, till every tone 
And gesture and dear look became thy own, 
Thy voice like his, the changes of his face 
In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, 
Like echo, sending back sweet music fraught 
With twice the aerial sweetness it had 

brought ! 

Yet now he comes brighter than even he 
E'er beam'd before, but ah ! not bright for 

thee ; 

No dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant 
From the other world, he comes as if to 

haunt 

Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, 
Long lost to all but memory's aching sight : 
Sad dreams ! as when the spirit of our youth 
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth 
And innocence once ours, and leads us back, 
In mournful mockery, o'er the shining track 
Of our young life, and points out every ray 
Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way 1 

Once happy pair! in proud Bokhara's 
groves 




POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



75 






Who had not heard of their first youthful 

loves ? 
Born by that ancient flood, 1 which from its 

spring 

Ui the Dark Mountains swiftly wandering, 
Enrich'd by every pilgrim brook that shines 
With relics from Bucharia's ruby mines, 
And, lending to the Caspian half its strength, 
-In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length ; 
There, on the banks of that bright river 

born, 
The flowers that hung above its wave at 

morn 

Btess'd not the waters as they murmur'd by, 
With holier scent and lustre than the sigh 
And virgin glance of first affection cast 
Upon their youth's smooth current, as it 

pass'd ! 

But war disturb'd this vision far awav 
From her fond eyes, summon'd to join the 

array 

Of Persia's warriors on the hills of Thrace, 
The youth exchanged his sylvan dwelling- 
place 
For the rude tent and war-field's deathful 

clash ; 

His Zelica's sweet glances for the flash 
Of Grecian wild-fire, and love's gentle chains 
For bleeding bondage on Byzantium's 

plains. 

Alonth after month, in widowhood of soul 
Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll 
Their suns away but, ah ! how cold and 

dim 
Kven summer suns when not beheld with 

him ! 

b'rom time to time ill-omen'd rumors came, 
(lake spirit-tongues, muttering the sick 

man's name, 
Mst ere he dies,) at length those sounds 

of dread 

* ell withering on her soul, " Azim is dead !" 
Oh, grief beyond all other griefs, when fate 
First leaves the young heart lone and deso- 
late 
a the wide world, without that only tie 



1 The Amoo, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Moun- 
ttlAB, and running nearly from east to west, splits into two 
ormnches, one of which falls into the Caspian Sea, and the 
Other into Aral Naur, or tbo Lake -it Eagles. 



For which it loved to live or fear'd to 

die ; 
Lorn as the hung-up lute mat ne'er hath 

spoken 
Since the sad day its master-chord was 

broken ! 

Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was 

such, 
Even reason sunk blighted beneath its 

touch ; 
And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit 

rose 

Above the first dead pressure of its woes, 
Though health and bloom return'd, the 

delicate chain 
Of thought, once tangled, never clear'd 

again. 
Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest 

day, 
The mind was still all there, but turn'd 

astray ; 
A wandering bark, upon whose pathway 

shone 

All stars of heaven, except the guiding one ! 
Again she smiled, nay, much and brightly 

smiled, 

But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild ; 
And when she sung to her lute's touching 

strain, 

'Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain, 
The bulbul a utters ere her soul depart, 
When, vanquish'd by some minstrel's pow- 
erful art, 
She dies upon the lute whose sweetnesa 

broke her heart ! 

Such was the mood in which that mission 

found 

Young Zelica, that mission, which around 
The Eastern world, in every region blest 
With woman's smile sought out its loveliest 
To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes 
Which the Veil'd Prophet destined for the 

skies ! 

And such quick welcome as a spark receivos 
Dropp'd on a bed of autumn's wither'd 

leaves, 

Did every tale of these entnusiasts find 
In the wild maiden's sorrow-blio-hted mind. 



' The nightingale. 



76 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



All fire at once, the maddening zeal she 

caught ; 

Elect of Paradise ! blest, rapturous thought: 
Predestined bride, in Heaven's eternal dome. 
Of some brave youth ha ! durst they say 

" of some?" 

No of the one, one only object traced 
In her heart's core too deep to be effaced ; 
The one whose memory, fresh as life, is 

twined 

With every broken link of her lost mind ; 
Whose image lives, though reason's self be 

wreck'd, 
Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect ! 

Alas, poor Zelica ! it needed all 
The fantasy which held thy mind in thrall 
To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids 
A sainted colony for Eden's shades ; 
Or dream that he, of whose unholy flame 
Thou wert too soon the victim, shining 

came 

From Paradise, to people its pure sphere 
With soul like thine, which he hath ruin'd 

here ! 

No had not reason's light totally set, 
And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet 
In the loved image, graven on thy heart, 
Which would have saved thee from the 

tempter's art, 

And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, 
That purity, whose fading is love's death ! 
But lost, inflamed, a restless zeal took 

place 
Of the mild virgin's still and feminine 

grace ; 

First of the Prophet's favorites, proudly first 
In zeal and charms, too well the Impostor 

nursed 

Her soul's delirium, in whose active flame, 
Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, 
He saw more potent sorceries to bind 
To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, 
More subtle chains than hell itself e'er 

twined. 
No art was spared, no witchery ; all the 

skill 

His demons taught him was employ'd to fill 
Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns 
That gloom, through which frenzy but 

fiercer burns ; 



That ecstasy, which from the depth of sad- 
ness 

Glares like the maniac's moon, whose light 
is madness ! 

'Twas from a brilliant banquet, where ih 

sound 

Of poesy and music breathed around, 
Together picturing to her mind and ear 
The glories of that heaven, her destined 

sphere, 
Where all was pure, where every stain that 

lay 

Upon the spirit's light should pass away, 
And, realizing more than youthful love 
E'er wish'd or dream'd, she should forever 

rove 
Through fields of fragrance by her Azim's 

side, 

His own bless'd, purified, eternal bride ! 
'Twas from a scene, a witching trance like 

this, 

He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, 
To the dim charnel house; through all its 

streams 

Of damp and death, led only by those gleams 
Which foul corruption lights, as with design 
To show the gay and proud she too can 

shine ! 
And, passing on through upright ranks of 

dead, 
Which to the maiden, doubly crazed by 

dread, 
Seem'd, through the bluish death-light round 

them cast, 
To move their lips in mutterings as she 

pass'd 
There, in that awful place, when each had 

quaff'd 
And pledged in silence such a fearful 

draught, 
Such oh ! the look and taste of that red 

bowl 
Will haunt her till she dies he bound her 

soul 
By a dark oath, in hell's own language 

framed, 
Never, while earth his mystic presence 

claim'd, 
While the blue arch of day hung o'er them 

both. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



77 



Never, by that all-imprecating oath, 
In joy or sorrow from his aide to sever. 
She swore, and the wide charnel echo'd, 
" Never, never !" 

From that dread hour, entirely, wildly 

given 
To him and she believed, lost maid ! to 

Heaven ; 

Her brain, her heart, her passions all in- 
flamed, 
How proud she stood, when in full Haram 

named 
The Priestess of the Faith ! how flash'd her 

eyes 

With light, alas ! that was not of the skies, 
When round in trances only less than hers, 
She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate 

worshippers ! 

Well might Mokanna think that form alone 
Had spells enough to make the world his 

own: 
Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's 

play 

Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, 
When from its stem the small bird wings 

away ! 
Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she 

smiled, 
The soul was lost ; and blushes, swift and 

wild 

As are the momentary meteors sent 
Across the uncalm, but beauteous firmament. 
And then her look ! oh ! where's the heart 

so wise, 
Could unbewilder'd meet those matchless 

eyt? 

Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, 
Like those of angels, just before their fall ; 
Now shadow'd with the shames of earth 

now crost 
By glimpses of the heaven her heart had 

lost; 

In every glance there broke, without con- 
trol, 

The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, 
Where sensibility still wildly play'd, 
Like lightning, round the ruins it had made 1 

And such was now young Zelica BO 
changed 



From her who, some years since, delighted 

ranged 

The almond groves that shade Bokhara's tide, 
All life and bliss, with Azim by her side I 
So altered was she now, this festal day, 
When, 'mid the proud Divan's dazzling 

array, 
The vision of that youth, whom she had 

loved, 
And wept as dead, before her breathed and 

moved ; 
When bright, she thought, as if from 

Eden's track 

But half-way trodden, he had wander'd back 
Again to earth, glistening with Eden'i 

light 
Her beauteous Azim shone before her sight. 

Oh, Reason ! wh< shall say what spells 

renew, 

When least we look for it, thy broken clew ! 
Through what small vistas o'er the darken'd 

brain 

Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again ; 
And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win 
Unhoped-for entrance through some friend 1 ' 

within, 

One clear idea, waken'd in the breast 
By memory's magic, lets in all the rest ! 
Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with 

thee! 

But though light came, it came but par- 
tially ; 
Enough to show the maze in which thy 

sense 
Wander'd about, but not to guide it 

thence ; 

Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave, 
But not to point the harbor which might 

save. 

Hours of delight and peace, long left behind, 
With that dear form came rushing o'er her 

mind; 
But oh ! to think how deep her soul had 

gone 
In shame and falsehood since those moment! 

shone ; 
And, then, her oath there madness ly 

again, 
And shuddering, back she sunk into hei 

chain 



78 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee 
From light, whose every glimpse was agony ! 
Yet, one relief this glance of former years 
Brought, mingled with its pain, tears, 

floods of tears, 

Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills 
Let loose in spring-time from the snowy 

hills, 

And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost, 
Through valleys where their flow had long 

been lost ! 

Sad and subdued, for the first time her 

frame 
Trembled with horror, when the summons 

came 
(A summons proud and rare, which all but 

she, 

And she till now, had heard with ecstasy) 
To meet Mokanna at his place of prayer, 
A garden oratory, cool and fair, 
By the stream's side, where still at close of 

day 

The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray ; 
Sometimes alone but oftener far with one, 
One chosen nymph to share his orison. 

Of late none found such favor in his sight 
As the young Priestess ; and though since 

that night 

When the death-caverns echo'd every tone 
Of the dire oath that made her all his own, 
The Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize, 
Had more than once thrown off his soul's 

disguise, 
And utter'd such unheavenly, monstrous 

things 

As even across the desperate wanderings 
Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, 
Threw startling shadows of dismay and 

doubt ; 

Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, 
The thought still haunting her of that bright 

brow 
Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye con- 

ceal'd, 
Would soon, proud triumph ! be to her re- 

veal'd, 
To her alone; and then the hope, most 

dear, 
Most wild of all, that her transgression here 



Was but a passage through earth's grosser 

fire, 

From which the spirit would at last aspire, 
Even purer than before, as perfumes rise 
Through flame and smoke, most welcome to 

the skies 

And that when Azim's fond, divine embrace 
Should circle her in heaven, no darkening 

trace 

Would on that bosom he once loved remain, 
But all be bright, be pure, be his again : 
These were the wildering dreams, whose 

curst deceit 
Had chain'd her soul beneath the tempter'a 

feet, 
And made her think even damning falsehood 

sweet. 
But now that shape, which had appall'd her 

view, 

That semblance oh, how terrible, if true ! 
Which came across her frenzy's full career 
With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, 

severe, 

As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark, 
An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, 
And, startling all its wretches from their 

sleep, 
By one cold impulse hurls them to the 

deep ; 
So came that shock not frenzy's self could 

bear, 

And waking up each long-lull'd image there, 
But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it in 

despair ! 

Wan and dejected, through the evening 

dusk, 

She now went slowly to that small kiosk, 
Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, 
Mokanna waited her too wrapt in dreams 
Of the fair-ripening future's rich success 
To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, 
That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, 
Or mark how slow her step, how alter'd now 
From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose 

light bound 
Came like a spirit o'er the unechoing 

ground, 

From that wild Zelica, whose every glance 
Was thrilling fire, whose very thought 

trance 1 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Upon his couch the veil'd Mokanna lay, 
While lamps around not such as lend their 

y, 

Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly 

pray 

In holy Koom, 1 or Mecca's dim arcades, 
Jut brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely 

maids 

Look loveliest in shed their luxurious glow 
Upon his mystic veil's white glittering 

flow. 
Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of 

prayer, 
Which the world fondly thought he mused 

on there, 
Stood vases, fill'd with Kishmee's* golden 

wine, 

And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine ; 
Of which his curtain'd lips full many a 

draught 
Took zealously, as if each drop they 

quaff'd, 
Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness," had 

power 

To freshen the soul's virtues into flower ! 
And still he drank and ponder'd nor could 

see 

The approaching maid, so deep his reverie ; 
&.t length, with fiendish laugh, like that 

which broke 

From Eblis at the fall of man, he spoke : 
"Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement 

given, 
Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with 

heaven ; 

God's images, forsooth ! such gods as he 
Whom India serves, the monkey deity ;' 
Ye creatures of a breath, proud tumgs of 

clay, 
To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say, 



1 " The cities of Com (or Koom) and Kashan are fall of 
mosqaes, mausoleums, and sepulchres of the descendant? of 
All, the saints of Persia." 

* An island in the Persian Golf, celebrated for Its white wine. 

> " The miraculous well at Mecca ; so called from the mur- 
muring of its waters." 

4 The good Hannaman. 

" Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, ont of 
ntpect to the god Hannaman, a deity partaking of the form 
of that race." Permanfft Hlndostan. 

See a cnrious account in Stephen's Persia of a solemn em- 
bassy from some part of the Indies to Goa, when the Portu- 
guese were there, offering vast treasures for the recovery of a 
monkey's tooth, which they held in great veneration, and 
which had been taken away upon the conquest of the kingdom 
f Jafanapatan. 



Refused, though at the forfeit of heaven'i 

light, 

To bend in worship, Lucifer was right !' 
Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck 
Of your foul race, and without fear or check, 
Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, 
My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man'i 

name ! 
Soon, at the head of myriads, blind and 

fierce 

As hooded falcons, through the universe 
I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way, 
Weak man my instrument, curst man my 

prey! 

" Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull 

way on 

By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, 
Like superstitious thieves, who think tho 

light 
From dead men's marrow guides them best 

at night* 
Ye shall have honors wealth, yes, sages, 

yes 
I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothing. 

ness ; 

Undazzled it can track yon starry spiiere, 
But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here. 
How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along 
In lying speech, and still more lying song, 
By these learn'd slaves, the meanest of the 

throng ; 
Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk 

so small, 
A sceptre's puny point can wield it all I 

" Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, 
Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it 
breeds ; 



This resolution of Eblls not to acknowledge tho new crea- 
ture man, was, according to Mohammedan tradition, thus 
adopted : " The earth (which God had selected for the mate- 
rials of His work) was carried into Arabia, to a place between 
Mecca and Tayef, where, being first kneeded by the angels, it 
was afterward fashioned by God himself into a human form, 
and left to dry for the space of forty days, or, as others say, as 
many years ; the angels in the mean time often visiting it, and 
Eblis (then one of the angels nearest to God's presence, after- 
ward the devil) among the rest ; bnt he, not contented with 
looking at it, kicked it with his foot till it rung, and knowing 
God designed that creature to be his superior, took a secret 
resolution never to acknowledge him as such." Sale on tin 
Koran. 

' A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, caJed tht 
Hand of Glory, the candle for which was made of tht tot of a 
dead malefactor. 



80 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Who, bolder even than Nimrod, think to 

vise, 
By nonsense heap'd on nonsense, to the 

skies ; 

Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too, 
Seen, heard, attested, everything but true. 
Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek 
One grace of meaning for the things they 

speak ; 

Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood 
For truths too heavenly to be understood ; 
And your state priests, sole vendors of the 

lore 

That works salvation ; as on Ava's shore, 
Where none but priests are privileged to 

trade 
In that best marble of which gods are 

made ;' 
They shall have mysteries ay, precious 

stuff 
For knaves to thrive by mysterious 

enough ; 
Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can 

weave, 

Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, 
While craftier feign belief, till they believe. 
A heaven too ye must have, ye lords of 

dust, 

A splendid Paradise, pure souls, ye must : 
That prophet ill sustains his holy call 
Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of 

'. all; 

Houris for boys, omniscience for sages, 
And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. 
Vain things ! as lust or vanity inspires, 
The heaven of each is but what each desires, 
And, soul or sense, whate'er the object be, 
Man would be man to all eternity ! 
So let him Eblis ! grant this crowning curse, 
But keep him what he is, no hell were 
\\orse." 

" Oh, my lost soul !" exclaim'd the shud- 
dering maid, 

Whose ears had drunk like poison all he 
said, 

Mokanna started not sbash'd, afraid, 



i The material of which Images of Qoadma (the Birmaa 
*elty) is made, IB held sacred. "Binnans may not purchase 
the marble in mass, bat are suffered, and indeed encouraged, 
to bnjr figures of the deity ready made." Si/mft Ava, roL 1L 
I. *76. 



He knew no more of fear than one who 

dwells 

Beneath the tropics knows of icicles ! 
But in those dismal words that reach'd hi* 

ear, 
" Oh, my lost soul !" there was a sound M 

drear, 

So like that voice, among the sinful dead, 
In which the legend o'er hell's gate is read, 
That, new as 'twas from her, whom naught 

could dim 
Or sink till now, it startled even him. 

" Ha, my fair Priestess !" thus, with 

ready wile, 
The impostor turn'd to greet her "thou 

whose smile 

Hath inspiration in its rosy beam 
Beyond the enthusiast's hope or prophet'i 

dream ! 
Light of the Faith ! who twin'st religion's 

zeal 
So close witL Icvo'fi, men know act which 

they fee 1 , 
Nor which to s : .gli for, in their trance of 

heart, 
The heaven thou preacheat cr the heaven 

thou art ! 
What should I be without thee? without 

thee 

How dull were power, how joyless victory! 
Though borne by angels, if that smile of 

thine 
Bless'd not my banner, 'twere but h^if 

divine. 
But why so mournful, child ? those eye* 

that shone 
All life last night what ! is their glory 

gone? 
Come, come this morn's fatigue hath made 

them pale, 
They want rekindling suns themselves 

would fail, 
Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, 
From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy ! 
Thou seest this cup no juice of earth is 

here, 

But the pure waters of that upper sphere, 
Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow, 
Batching the gems' bright color as they go. 
Nightly my genii come and fill these urn 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOO I IE. 



81 



Nay, drink in every drop life's essence 

burns ; 
Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all 

bright 

Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to- 
night : 
There is a youth why start ? thou sawst 

him then ; 

Look'd he not nobly ? such the godlike men 
Thou'lt have to \voo thee in the bowers 

above ; 
Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern 

for love, 

Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss 
The world calls Virtue we must conquer 

this ; 
Nay, shrink not, pretty sage ; 'tis not for 

thee 

To scan the mazes of heaven's mystery. 
The steel must pass through fire, ere it can 

yield 

Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. 
This very night I mean to try the art 
Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart ; 
All that my Hiram boasts of bloom and wit, 
Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, 
Shall tempt the boy ; young Mirzala's blue 

eyes, 

Whose sleepy lid like snow on violet lies ; 
Arouya's cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun, 
And lips that, like the seal of Solomon, 
Have magic in their pressure ; Zeba's lute, 
And Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and 

shoot 
Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the 

deep ! 
All shall combine their witching powers to 

steep 

My convert's spirit in that softening trance, 
From which to heaven is but the next 

advance ; 

That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast 
On which Religion stamps her image best. 
But hear me, Priestess ! though each 

nymph of these 
Hath some peculiar, practised power to 

please, 
Some glance or step which, at the mirror 

tried, 
First charms herself, then all the world 

bcrde ; 



There still wants one, to make the victory 

sure, 

One, who in every look joins every lure ; 
Through whom all beauty's beams concen 

tred pass, 
Dazzling and rich, as through love'i 

burning-glass ; 

Whose gentle lips persuade without a word, 
Whose words, even when unmeaning, are 

adored, 

Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, 
Which our faith takes for granted are 

divine ! 
Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and 

light, 

To crown the rich temptations of to-night , 
Such the refined enchantress that must be 
This hero's vanquisher, and thon art she!" 

With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and 
pale, 

The maid had stood, gazing upon the veil 

From which these words, like south-winds 
through a fence 

Of Kerzrah flowers, came n'll'd with pesti- 
lence :' 

So boldly utter'd too ! as if all dread 

Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, 
were fled, 

And the wretch felt assured that, once 
plunged in, 

Her woman's soul would know no pause in 
sin ! 

At first, though mute she listen'd, like a 

dream 
Seem'd all he said ; nor could her mind, 

whose beam 

As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme. 
But when, at length, he utter'd, "Thou art. 

she !" 

All flash'd at once, and shrieking piteously, 
" Oh, not for worlds !" she cried " Great 

God ! to whom 

I once knelt innocent, is this my doom ? 
Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly 

bliss, 
My purity, my pride, then come to this, 



1 " It is commonly said tn Persia, that If a man breatfr In 
the hot eonth wind, which in June or July paseee ore . u 
flower, (the Kerzcreh,) it will kill him." 



1'OE.MS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



To live the wanton of a fiend ! to be 
The pander of his guilt oh, infamy ! 
And, sunk myself as low as hell can steep 
In its hot flood, drag others down as deep ! 
Others ? ha ! yes that youth who cam 

to day 

Not him I loved not him oh ! do but say 
But swear to me this moment 'tis not he, 
And I will serve, dark fiend ! will worship 

even thee !" 

" Beware, young raving thing ! in time 

beware, 

Nor utter what I cannot, must nor bear 
Even from thy lips. Go try thy lute, th 

voice, 

The boy must feel their magic I rejoice 
To see those fires, no matter whence thei 

rise, 

Once more illuming my fair Priestess' eyes ; 
And should the youth, whom soon those 

eyes shall warm, 

Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form, 
So much the happier wilt thou find thy 

doom, 

As one warm lover, full of life and bloom, 
Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb 
Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet ! those eyes 

were made 
For love, uot anger I must be obey'd." 

" Obey'd ! 'tis well yes, I deserve it 

all 

On me, on me Heaven's vengeance cannot fall 
Too heavily but Azim, brave and true 
And beautiful must fie be ruin'd too ? 
Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven 
A renegade like me from love and heaven ? 
Like me ? weak wretch, I wrong him not 

like me ; 

No he's all truth and strength and purity ! 
Fill up your maddening hell-cup to the 

brim, 
Its witchery, fiend, will have no charm for 

him. 
Let loose your glowing wantons from their 

bowers, 
tie loves, he loves, and can defy their 

powere ! 

Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reio- n 
Puie as when first we met, without a stain ! 



Though ruin'd lost my memory, like 

charm 
Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from 

harm. 

Oh ! never let him know how deep the brow 
He kiss'd at parting'is dishonor'd now 
Ne'er tell him how debased, how sunk is she 
Whom once he loved once! still lovea 

dotinglv ! 

O 

Thou laughst, tormentor, what! thou'it 

brand my name? 
Do, do in vain he'll not believe ray 

shame 
He thinks me true, that naught beneath 

God's sky 
Could tempt or change me, and so once 

thought L 
But this is past though worse than death 

my lot, 

Than hell 'tis nothing, while he knows it not 
Far off to some benighted land I'll fly, 
Where sunbeam ne'er shall enter till I die; 
Where none will ask the lost one whence *lie 

came, 

But I may fade and fall without a name ! 
And thou curst man or fiend, whate'er thou 

art, 
Who foundst this burning plague-spot in my 

heart, 
And spreadst it oh, so quick ! through 

soul and frame 

>Vith more than demon's art, till I became 
A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all 

flame ! 
f, when I'm gone " 

" Hold, fearless maniac, hoi 1, 
Nor tempt my rage by Heaven not half so 

bold 

'he puny bird that dares with teasing hum 
Vithin the crocodile's stretch'd jaws to 

come!' 
And so thou'lt fly, forsooth ? what ! give 

up all 
"hy chaste dominion in the Haram hall, 



The indent story concerning the TrochUu*, or turn 
ing-bird, entering with -Impunity into the month of the cro- 
codile, is firmly believed at Java." 

The humming-bird is said to ran this risk for the purpose of 
eking the crocodile's teeth. The r*m<- r'.rcomt lance is ra- 
ted of the Upwinjr. as a (act to which he vm witnet., by- 
Pwil Lucas, (Yoyaytfaite en .71*.) 




" He raised his veil the Maid tnrn'd 

slowly round, 

Look'd at him shriek'd and sunk upon 
the ground ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



83 









Where, now to love and now to Alia given, 
Half mistress and half saint, thou hangst as 

even 
As doth Medina's tomb, 'twixt hell and 

heaven ! 

Thou'lt fly ? as easily may reptiles run 
The gaunt snake once hath fix'd his eyes 

upon ; 

As easily, when caught, the prey may be 
Pluck'd from his loving folds, as thou from 

me. 

No, no, 'tis fix'd let good or ill betide, 
Thou'rt mine till death till death Mokan- 

na's bride ! 
Hast thou forgot thy oath ?" 

At this dread word, 
The maid whose spirit his rude taunts had 

stirr'd 
Through all its depths, and roused an angei 

there 
That burst and lighten'd even through her 

despair 
Shrunk back, as Lt a blight were in the 

breath 
That spoke tkat word, and stagger'd, pale as 

death. 

" Yes, my sworn Bride, let others seek in 

bowers 
Their bridal place the charnel vault was 

ours ! 

Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me 
Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality; 
Gay, dickering death-lights shone while we 

were wed, 

And, for our guests, a row of goodly dead 
(Immortal spirits in their time no doubt) 
From reeking shrouds upon the rite look'd 

out ! 
That oath thou heardst more lips than thine 

repeat 
That- cup thou shudderest lady was it 

sweet ? 
That cup we pledged, the charnel's choicest 

wine, 
Hath bound thee ay body and soul all 

mine ; 
Hound thee by chains that, whether blest or 

curst 
No matter now, not hell itself shall burst ! 



Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay, 
Look wild, look anything but sad ; yet 

stay 
One moment more from what this night 

hath pass'd, 

I see thou knowst me, knowst me well at last. 
Ha ! ha ! and so, fond thing, thou thoughts! 

all true, 

And that I love mankind ! I do, I do 
As victims, love them ; as the sea-dog doats 
Upon the small, sweet fry that round him 

floats ; 
Or as the Nile-bird loves the slime that 

gives 
That rank and venomous food on which she 

lives ! 

"And now thou seest my soul's angelio 

hue, 
"Tis time these features were uncurtain'd 

too; 
This brow, whose light oh, rare celestial 

light ! 
Hath been reserved to bless thy favor'd 

sight ; 
These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded 

might 
Thou'st seen immortal man kneel down and 

quake 
Would that they were Heaven's lightnings 

for his sake ! 
But turn and look then wonder, if thou 

wilt, 
That I should hate, should take revenge, by 

guilt, 
Upon the hand whose mischief or whose 

mirth 
Sent me thus maim'd and monstrous upon 

earth ; 
And on that race who, though more vile 

they be 

Than mowing apes, are demigods to me ! 
Here judge if hell, with all its power to 

damn, 
Can add one curse to the foul thing 1 

am !" 

" He raised his veil the Maid tnrn'd 

slowly round, 

Look'd at him shriek'd and sunk upon 
the ground ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE. 



On their arrival, next night, at the place 
of encampment, they were surprised and de- 
lighted to find the groves all round illumi- 
nated ; some artists of Yamtcheou having 
been sent on previously for the purpose. 1 
each side of the green alley, which led 
to the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of 
bamboo-work were erected, representing 
arches, minarets, and towers, from which 
hung thousands oi silken lanterns, painted 
by the most delicate pencils of Canton. 
Xothing could be more beautiful than the 
leaves of the mango-trees and acacias, shin- 
ing in the light of the bamboo scenery, 
which shed a lustre round as soft as that of 
the nights of Peristan. 

Lalla Rookh, however, who was too much 
occupied by the sad story of Zelica and her 
lover, to give a thought to anything else, 
except, perhaps, to him who related it, 
hurried on through this scene of splendor to 
her pavilion, greatly to the mortification 
of the poor artists of Yamtcheou, and was 
followed with equal rapidity by the Great 
Chamberlain, cursing, as he went, that 
ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety 
in lighting up the shores of the lake, where 
his beloved daughter had wandered and 
been lost, was the origin of these fantastic 
Chinese illuminations.' 

Without a moment's delay young 
Feramorz was introduced, and Fadladeen^ 
who could never make up his mind as to the 
merits of a poet, till he knew the religious 
sect to which he belonged, was about to ask 
him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni, when 
Lalla Rookh impatiently clapped her hands 
for silence, and the youth, being seated upon 
the musnud near her, proceeded : 

Prepare tny soul, jonng Azim ! thou hast 
braved 



1 " The Feasi of Lanterns is celebrated at Yamtcheoa with 
more magnificence than anywhere else." Present State af 
China, p. loli. 

J " The vulgar ascribe it to an accident that happened in 
the family of a tiimous mandarin, whose daughter walkin^ 
one evening upon the shore of a lake, fell in and was 
drowned; the aillicted father, with his family, ran thither, 
ind, the better to lindher. caused a great company of lanterns 
to be lighted. All the inhabitants of the pl-ace ili'mn^cd after 
him with torches. The year eimiing they mad,- (ires upon 
Ihe shores the same day ; they eoiitiiuu-d the i-cn-mony everv 
).*r. every one lighted his lantern, and by degrees it com- 
iienced Into a custom." rrKtnt State qf China. 



The bands of Greece, still mighty though 

enslaved ; 
Hast faced her phalanx, arm'd with all its 

fame, 

Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame ; 
All this hast fronted with firm heart and 

brow, 

But a more perilous trial waits thee now, 
Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of 

eyes 
From every laud where woman smiles or 

sighs ; 

Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise 
His black or azure ' -inner in their blaze ; 
And each sweet mode of warfare, from the 

flash 
That lightens boldly through the shadowy 

lash, 

To the sly, stealing splendors, almost hid, 
Like swords half-sheathed, benea-th the 

downcast lid. 
Such, Azim, is the lovely, luminous host 
Now led against thee; and let conquerors 

boast 

Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms 
A young, warm spirit against beauty's 

charms, 
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her 

thrall, 
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all. 

Now, through the Haram chambers mov- 
ing lights 
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's 

rites ; 
From room to room the ready handmaids 

hie, 

Some skill'd to wreathe the turban tastefully, 
Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade, 
D'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, 
Who, if between the folds hut one eye shone 
Like Seba's Queei^ u>dld vanquish witb 

that one ;' 

While some bring leaves of henna, to imbue 
The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue, 4 
So bright, that in the mirror's depth they 

seem 
Like tips of coral branches in the stream ; 






"Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes " 
Sol. Soiy. 

4 " They tinged the ends of her fingers scarlet with henn.*, 
o that they resembled branches of corl." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



86 






And others mix the kohol's jetty dye,' 

To give that long dark languish to the eye,' 

Which makes the maids, whom kings are 

proud to cull 
From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful ! 

All is in motion ; rings and plumes and 

pearls 
Are shining everywhere: some younger 

girls 

Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, 
To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their 

heads ; 
Gay creatures ! sweet, though mournful, 'tis 

to see 

How each prefers a garland from that tree 
Which brings to mind her childhood's 

innocent day, 

And the dear fields and friendships far away. 
The maid of India, blest again to hold 
In her full lap the champac's leaves of gold," 
Thinks of the time when by the Ganges' 

flood, 

Her little playmates scatter'd many a bud 
Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam 
Just dripping from the consecrated stream ; 
While the young Arab, haunted by the smell 
Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell 
The sweet elcaya, 4 and that courteous tree 
Which bows to all who seek its canopy' 
Sees, call'd up round her by these magic 

scents, 

The well, the camels, and her father's tents ; 
Sighs for the home she left with little pain, 
And wishes even its sorrows back again ! 



' "None of these ladies," says Shaw, " take themselves to 
be completely dressed, till they have tinged the hair and 
edges of their eyelids with the powder of lead-ore. Now, 
as this operation is ^c-rfomied by dipping first into the 
powder a small wooden bodkin of the thicki-ess of a quill, 
and then drawing it afterward through the eyelids over the 
ball of th'e eye, we shall have a lively image of what the 
Projhet (Jer. iv. 30) may be supposed to mean by renting 
the 'eyes with painting. This practice is no doubt of great 
antiquity; for besides the instance already taken notice of, 
we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings ix. 30) to have 
j.ainted her face, the original words are. slie adjusted her eya 
u-i"t the powder of lead-ore." y/iaw's Travels. 

' " The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a 
powder named the black kohol." 

1 " The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-colored cam- 
pac in the black hair of the Indian women has supplied the 
Sanscrit poets with many elegant allusions." 

* " A tree famous fur its perfume, and common on the hills 
of Yemen." 

" Of the genus mimosa, which droops its branches when- 
trer any person approaches it, seeming as u* it saJuted those 
ho retire under its shade." 



Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, 
Silent and bright, where nothing but the falli 
Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound 
From many a jasper fount, is heard around, 
Young Azim roams bewilder'd, nor can 

guess 

What means this maze of light and loneli- 
ness. 

Here the way leads o'er tessellated floors 
Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors, 
Where, ranged in cassolets and silver urns, 
Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns; 
And spicy rods, such as illume at night 
The bowers of Tibet,' send forth odorous light, 
Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the 

road 

For some pure spirit to its blest abode ! 
And here, at once, the glittering saloon 
Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as 

noon ; 

Where, in the midst, reflecting back the raya 
In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays 
High as the enamell'd cupola, which towers 
All rich with Arabesques of gold and flairer? : 
And the mosaic floor beneath shines through 
The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, 
Like the wet, glistening shells of every dye 
That on the margin of the Red Sea lie. 

Here too he traces the kind visitings 
Of woman's love, in those fair, living things 
Of land and wave, whose fate in bondage 

thrown 

For their weak loveliness is like her own ! 
On one side gleaming with a sudden grace 
Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase 
In which it undulates, small fishes shine, 
Like golden ingots from a fairy mine, 
While on the other, latticed lightly in 
With odoriferous woods of Comorin,' 
Each brilliant bird that wings the air is 

seen ; 
Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam 

between 

The crimson blossoms of the coral tree 
In the warm isles of India's sunny sea ; 



" Cloves are a principal ingredient in the composition of 
the perfumed rods which men of rank keep constantly burn'.ni 
in their presence." 

' " C'est d'ou vient le bois d'aloes. qne les Arabes appellent 
Ond Comari, et celui du sandal, qul s'y trocve en grain" 
quantity. 



86 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Mecca's blue sacred pigeon, 1 and the thrush 
Of Hindostan,' whose holy warblings gush 
At evening from the tall pagoda's top ; 
Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, 

drop 
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet 

food' 

Whose scent hath lured them o'er the sum- 
mer flood,' 

And those that under Araby's soft sun 
Build their high nests of budding cin- 

O O 

namon ; 

In short, all rare and beauteous things that fly 
Through the pure element here calmly lie 
Sleeping in light, like the green birds* that 

dwell 
In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel ! 

So on, through scenes past all imagining 
More like the luxuries of that impious king,' 
Whom Death's dark Angel, with his light- 
ning torch, 
Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's 

porch, 

Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent 
Arm'd with Heaven's sword for man's en- 
franchisement 
Young Azim wander'd, looking sternly 

round, 
His simple garb and war-boots' clanking 

sound 

But ill according with the pomp and grace 
And silent lull of that voluptuous place ! 

"Is this then," thought the youth, "is 

this the way 

To free man's spirit from the deadening sway 
Of worldly sloth ; to teach him, while he 

lives, 



1 "In Mecca thcie are quantities of blue pigeons, which 
none will affright or abuse, much less kill." 

' " The pagoda thrush is esteemed among the flrst choristers 
of India. It sits perched or. the sacred pagodas, and from 
thence delivers its melodious song." 

' Tavernier adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lie in 
this intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat off their 
legs : and that hence it is they are said to have no feet. 

Birds of Paradise, which at the nutmeg season, come In 
flights from the southern isles to India, and "the strength 
of the nutmeg so intoxicates them that tney fall dead drunk 
to the earth." 

" The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops 
of preen birds." Gibbon, vol. ii.. p. 421. 

Shedad. who made the delicious gardens of Irim, in 
onlttion of Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning the flret 
aim- he attempted to enter them. 



To know no bliss but that which virtue gives 
And when he dies, to leave his lofty name 
A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame ? 
It was not so, land of the generous thought 
And daring deed ! thy godlike sages taught. 
It was not thus, in bpwers of wanton ease, 
Thy freedom nursed her sacred energies ; 
Oh ! not beneath the enfeebling, withering 

glow 

Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow 
With which she wreathed her sword, when 

she would dare 

Immortal deeds ; but in the bracing air 
Of toil, of temperance, of that high, rare, 
Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe 
Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's 

wreath ! 
Who, that surveys this span of earth we 

press, 

This speck of life in time's great wilderness, 
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless 

seas, 

The past, the future, two eternities, 
Would sully the bright spot or leave it bare. 
When he might build him a proud temple 

there, 

A name that long shall hallow all its space, 
And be each purer soul's high resting-place ! 
But no it cannot be that one whom God 
Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's 

rod, 

A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws 
Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane 

his cause 
With the world's vulgar pomp ; no, no 1 

see 

He thinks me weak this glare of luxury 
Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze 
Of my young soul : shine on, 'twill stand 

the blaze !" 

So thought the youth ; but even while 

he defied 
This witching scene, he felt its witchery 

glide 

Through every sense. The perfume, breath- 
ing round 

Like a pervading spirit ; the still sound 
Of falling waters, lulling as the song 
Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng 
Around the fragrant nilica. and deen 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



87 






In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep !' 
And music too dear music ! that can touch 
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much 
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem 
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream ; 
All was too much for him, too full of bliss, 
The heart could nothing feel that felt not 

this ; 

Soften'd he sunk upon a couch, and gave 
IDs soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on 

wave 
Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms arc 

laid ; 

He thought of Zelica, his own dear maid, 
And of the time when, full of blissful sighs, 
They sat and look'd into each other's eyes, 
Silent and happy as if God had given 
Naught else worth looking at on this side 

heaven ! 

" Oh, my loved mistress ! whose enchant- 
ments still 
Are with me, round me, wander where I 

will- 
It is for thee, for thee alone I seek 
The paths of glory to light up thy cheek 
With warm approval in that gentle look 
To read my praise as in an angel's book, 
And think all toils rewarded, when from thee 
I gain a smile, worth immortality ! 
How shall I bear the moment when restored 
To that voung heart where I alone am lord, 
Though of such bliss unworthy, since the 

best 

Alone deserve to be the happiest ! 
When from those lips, unbreathed upon for 

years, 

I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, 
And find those tears warm as when last they 

started, 

Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted ! 
Oh, my own life ! why should a single day 
A moment keep mo from those arms away ?" 



To the soft chain in which his spirit, sinks. 
He turns him toward the sound, and, fai 

away 

Through a long vista, sparkling with the play 
Of countless lamps, like the rich track 

which day 

Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us ; 
So IODLT the path, its light so tremulous: 
He sees a group of female forms advance, 
Some chainM together in the mazy dance 
By fetters, forged in the green sunny bowers, 
As they were captives to the King of 

Flowers ;' 
And some disporting round, unlink'd and 

free, 

Who seem'd to mock their sisters' slavery, 
And round and round them still, in wheeling 

flight 

Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night ; 
While others walk'd, as gracefully along 
Their feet kept time, the very soul of song 
From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly 

thrill, 

Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still ! 
And now-they come, now pass before his eye, 
Forms such as Nature moulds when she 

would vie 

With "Fancy's pencil, and give birth to things 
Lovely beyond its fairest picturings ! 
A while they dance before him, then divide, 
Breaking, like rosy clouds at eventide 
j Around the rich 'pavilion of the sun, 
Till silently dispersing, one by one, 
Through many a path that from the chamber 

leads 

To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads, 
Their distant laughter comes upon the wind, 
And but one trembling nymph remain* 

behind, 
Beck'ning them back in vain, for they are 

gone, 

And she is left in all that light alone ; 
No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow, 
In its young bashfulness more beauteous now ; 
lint a light, golden chain-work round her hair, 1 



While thus he thinks, still nearer on the 

breeze 
Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, 

r-, /. t i i i- i bi throws of enuiui'Hetl folinije." Itahtinlanusfi. 

Each note of which but adds new, downy links , .. On .. , , hl . i,,,,,|.,| rusws of , he Persian women i> com- 



They deferred it till the Kiny; of Flowers should asreud 



1 "My pundits assure nu- that ibe plain before in* {the nili- 
tp th<;ir cuphalica. thin* named because the bc-cs are sup- 
*r^ to sleep ou its blossoms." .Sir W. JOMS. 



posed ufa llj;lii ipildiMi chain-work, set with small pearls, wit* 
a thin j,iilil plate pendant, about the bi;;nei "f a crown-pirc 
on which is impressed an Arabian prayer, am! which hanj> 
3ton the cheek below vh mi 'llnnicay t 7Vutt'/*. 



I'OK.MS OF THOMAS JMOOKIC. 



Such as the maids of Yezd 1 and Shiraz wear, 
From which, on either side, gracefully hung 
A golden amulet, in the Arab tongue, 
Engraven o'er with some immortal line 
From holy writ, or bard scarce less divine; 
While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, 
Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, 
Which, once or twice, she touch'd with 

hurried strain, 

Then took her trembling fingers off again. 
But when at length a timid glance she stole 
At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul 
She saw through all his features calm'd her 

fear, 

And, like a half-tamed antelope, more near, 
Though shrinking still, she came ; then sat 

her down 

Upon a musnudV edge, and, bolder grown, 
In the pathetic mode of Isfahan,' 
Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began : 

" There's a bower of roses by BendemeerV 

stream, 
And the nightingale sings round it all the 

day long, 
I'A the time of my childhood 'twas like a 

sweet dream, 

To sit in the roses and hear the birds''song. 
That bower and its music I never forget, 
Hut oft when alone, in the bloom of the 

year, 

1 think Is the nightingale singing there yet? 
Aro the roses still bright by the calm 
Bendemeer? 

" No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er 

the wave, 
But some blossoms were gather'd, while 

freshly they shone, 
And a dew was distill'd from the flowers 

that gave 

All the fragrance of summer when summer 
was crone. 



1 " Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women 
U: Persia. The proverb is, that to live happy, a man must 
37e a wife of Yezd, eat the bread of Yezdecas, and drink the 
h-e or Shiraz." Tavernier. 

* Mu.-nuds are cushioned scats reserved for persons of dis- 
tinction. 

'' The Persians. !ike the ancient Greeks, call their musical 
J..odes or Perdas by the names of different countries or cilice, 
m the mode of Isfahan, the mode oflrak, etc. 

* A river which flow* near the ruins of Chilr.iinir. 



Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, 

An essence that breathes of it many a year ; 

Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas theu to my 

eyes, 

Is that bower on the banks of the calm 
Bendemeer ?" 

" Poor maiden !" thought the youth, " if 

thou wert sent, 

With thy soft lute and beauty's blandish- 
ment, 

To wake unholy wishes in this heart, 
Or tempt its truth, thou little knowst the art. 
For though thy lip should sweetly counsel 

wrong, 

Those vestal eyes would disavow its song. 
But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay 
Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, 
And leads thy soul if e'er it wander' 4 

thence 

So gently back to its first innocence, 
That I would sooner stop the unchain'd dove,. 
When swift returning to its home of love, 
And round its snowy wing new fetters twinu, 
Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine ! n 

Scarce had this feeling pasa'd, when, 

sparkling through 

The gently-open'd curtains of light blue 
That veil'd the breezy casement, countlcsi 

eyes, 
Peeping like stars through the blue evetrng 

skies, 

Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair 
That sat so still and melancholy there 
And now the curtains fly apart, and in 
From the cool air, 'mid showers of jessamine 
Which those without fling after them in play, 
Two lightsome maidens spring, lightsome as 

they 

Who live in the air on odors, and around 
The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the 

ground, 

Chase one another, in a varying dance 
Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance, 
Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit : 
While she, who sung so gently to the lute 
Her dream of home, steals timidly away, 
Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray, 
But takes with her from Azim's ..eart i 

sigh 



n _ 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



We sometimes give to forms that pass us by 
In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, 
Creatures of light we never see again ! 

Around the white necks of the nymphs 

who danced 

Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanced 
More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering 

o'er 

The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore; 1 
While from their long dark tresses, in a fall 
Of curls descending, bells as musical 
As those that on the golden-shafted trees 
Of Eden shake in the Eternal Breeze,* 
Rung round their steps, at every bound 

more sweet, 

As 'twere the ecstatic language of their feet ! 
At length the chase was o'er, and they stood 

wreathed 
Within each other's arms ; while soft there 

breathed 
Through the cool casement, mingled with 

the sighs 
Of moonlight flowers, music that seem'd to 

rise 

From some still lake, so liquidly it rose ; 
And, as it swell'd again at each faint close, 
The ear could track through all that maze 

of chords 
And young sweet voices, these impassion'd 

words : 

" A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh 
Is burning now through earth and air; 

Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh, 
Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there ! 

" His breath is the soul of flowers like these ; 

And his floating eyes oh ! they resemble 
Blue water-lilies,' when the breeae 

Is making the stream around them tremble ! 

" Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power ! 
Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss ! 



1 "To the north was a mountain which sparkled like dia- 
monds, arising from the pea-glass and crystals with which it 
abound*." Journt'jofUtt Iiustian AmbattaiJor to Persia, 174<i. 

1 "To which will be added, the pound of the bells hanging 
i/n the tre., which will be put in motion by the wind pro- 
ceeding from the throne of God, as often as the blessed wish 



" The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and iu Persia. 

Whose wanton eyes resemble blue water-libee agitated by 
ic jreczc."- -Jayadtva. 



Thy holiest time is the moonlight Lour, 
And there never was moonlight so sweet 
as this." 

" By the fair and brave, 

Who blushing unite, 
Like the sun and wave 

When they meet at night ! 

" By the tear that siiows 

When passion is nigh, 
As the rain-drop flows 

From the heat of the sky ! 

" By the first love-beat 

Of the youthful heart, 
By the bliss to meet, 

And the pain to part ! 

" By all that thou hast 

To mortals given, 
Which oh ! could it last, 

This earth were heaven ! 

"We call thee hither, entrancing Power! 

Spirit of Love ! Spirit of Bliss ! 
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, 

And there never was moonlight so sweet 
as this." 

Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole, 
Spke of himself, too deep into his soul, 
And where, midst all that the young heart 

loves most, 

Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost, 
The youth had started up, and turn'd away 
From the light nymphs and their luxurious 

lay, 
To muse upon the pictures that hung 

round,* 

Bright images, that spoke without a sound, 
And views, like vistas into fairy ground. 
But here again new spells came o'er hit 

sense ; 

All that the pencil's mute omnipotence 
Could call up into life, of soft and fair, 



' It has been generally supposed that the Mohammedau* 
prohibit all pictures of animals; bat Toderini shown tht, 
though the practice is forbidden by the Koran, they are not 
more averse to painted figures and images than other people. 
From Mr. Murphy's work. too. we find that the Arals of Spai 
had no objection to the introduction of tiguru! 1 inlc paintin? 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Of fond and passionate, was glowing there ; 
Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that 

fine art 

Which paints of pleasure but the purer part ; 
Which knows even Beauty when half-veil'"d 

is best, 

Like her own radiant planet of the west, 
Whose orb when half-retired looks loveliest !' 
There hung the history of the Genii-King,' 
Traced through each gay, voluptuous wan- 
dering 
With her from Saba's bowers,' in whose 

bright eyes 

He read that to be blest is to be wise ; 
Here fond Zuleika 4 woos with open arms 
The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young 

charms, 

Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone. 
Wishes that heaven and she could both be 

won ! 

And here Mohammed, born for love and guile, 
Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile ; 
Then beckons some kind angel from above 
With a new text to consecrate their love ! 

With rapid step, yet pleased and lingering 

eye, 

Did the youth pass these pictured stories by, 
And hasten'd to a casement, where the light 
Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright 
The fields without were seen, sleeping as still 
As if no life remain'd in breeze or rill. 
Here paused he, while the music, now less 

near, 

Breathed with a holier language on his ear, 
As though the distance, and that heavenly 

ray 
Through which the sounds came floating, 

took away 

All that had been too earthly in the lay. 
Oh ! could he listen to such sounds unmoved 
And by that light nor dream of her he 

loved ? 
Dream on, unconscious boy ! while yet thou 

mayst ; 



1 This is not quite astronomically true. " Dr. Halley " say* 
C*L, " has shown that Venus is brightest when she i about 
orty degrees removed from the sun ; and that then but only a 
fourth part of her Incid disk is to be seen from the earth 

1 Kim; Solomon, who was supposed to preside over the 
hole race 01 Renii. 

' The yiicwn of Sheba or Sal.n 

4 The wife of I'utiphar. thu. ni;::-d by the Oriental*. 



'Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste. 
Clasp yet a while her image to thy heart, 
Ere all the light that made it dear depart. 
Think of her smiles as when thou sawst them 

last, 

Clear, beautiful, by naught of earth o'ercast ; 
Recall her tears to thee at parting given 
Pure as they weep, ?y angels weep in heaven ! 
Think in her own still bower she waits thee 

now, 
With the same glow of heart and bloom of 

brow, 

Yet shrined in so'itude thine all, thine only, 
Like the one star above thee, bright and 

lonely ! 

Oh, that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy'd, 
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy'd ! 

The song is hush'd, the laughing nymph- 
are flown, 

And he is left, musing of bliss, alone; 
Alone ? no, not alone that heavy sigh, 
That sob of grief, which broke from sonw 

one nigh 

Whose could it be? alas! is misery found 
Here, even here, on this enchanted ground ? 
He turns, and sees a female form, close veil'd, 
Leaning, as if both heart and strength had 

fail'd, 

Against a pillar near; not glittering o'er 
With gems and wreaths, such as the others 

wore, 

But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress* 
Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfuliu-ss 
Of friends or kindred, dead or far away ; 
And such as Zelica had on that day 
He left her, when, with heart too full to 

speak, 

He took away her last warm tears upon hi 
cheek. 

A strange emotion stirs within him, more 

Than mere compassion ever waked before ; 

Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she 
Springs forward, as witii life's last energy, 
But, swooning in that one convulsive bound, 
Sinks ere she reach his arms, upon the 

ground ; 
Her veil falls off her faint hands clasp his 

knees 



" Deep blue is their mournins color." 



1'OKMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



91 



Tig she herself! 'tis Zelica he sees ! 
But, ah, so pule, so changed none but a lover 
Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine dis- 
cover 

The once-adored divinity ! even he 
Stood for some moments mute, and doubt- 
ing 1 }' 
Put back the ringlets from her brow, and 

gazed 
Upon those lids, where once such lustre 

blazed, 

Ere he could think she was indeed his own, 
Own dariing maid, whom he so long had 

known 

In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both ; 
Who, even when grief was heaviest when 

loth 

He left her for the wars in that worst hour 
Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower,' 
When darkness brings its weeping glories out, 

O I ~ ~ 

And spreads its sighs like frankincense about ! 

"Look up, my Zelica one moment show 
Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know 
Thy life, thj loveliness is not all gone, 
Bat there, at least, shines as it ever shone 
Come, look upon thy Axim one dear glance, 
Like those of old, were heaven ! whatever 

chance 
Hath broaght thee here, oh ! 'twas a blessed 

one ! 
There my sweet lids they move that 

kiss hath run 

Like the first shoot of life through every vein. 
And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again ! 
Oh, the delight now, in this very hour 
When, had the whole rich world been in my 

power, 

I should have singled out thee, only thee, 
From the whole world's collected treasury 
To have thee here to hang thus fondly o'er 
My own best, purest Zelica once more !" 

It was indeed the touch of those loved lips 
Upon her eyes that chased their short eclipse, 
And, gradual as the snow at heaven's breath 
Melts off, and shows the azure flowers beneath, 
Her lids unclosed; and the bright eyes were 



The sorrowfal nyctanthc*, which begin? to spread its rich 
' T after sunset 



Gazing on his, not as they late had been, 
Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene ; 
As if to lie, even for that tranced minute, 
So near his heart, had consolation in it; 
And thus to wake in his beloved caress 
Took from her soul one half its wretched- 
ness, 
But, when she heard him call her good aud 

pure, 

Oh, 'twas too much too dreadful to endure ! 
Shuddering she broke away from his em- 
brace, 

And, hiding with both hands her guilty face, 
Said, in a tone whose anguish would have 

riven 
A heart of very marble, " Pure ! O Heaven !" 

That tone those looks so changed the 

withering blight 
That sin and sorrow leave where'er they 

light 

The dead despondency of those sunk eyes, 
Where once, had he thus met her by sur- 
prise, 

He would have seen himself, too happy boy, 
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy ; 
And then the place, that bright unholy place, 
Where vice lay hid beneath such winning 

grace 

And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves 
Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves; 
All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold 
As death itself; it needs not to be told 
No, no he sees it all, plain as the brand 
Of burning shame can mark whate'er the 

hand, 
That could from Heaven and him such 

brightness sever, 

'Tis done to Heaven and him she's lost for- 
ever ! 

It was a dreadful moment ; not the tears, 
The lingering, lasting misery of years 
Could match th.it minute's anguish all the 

Wont 

Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst 
Broke o'er his soul, and, with one crash of 

fate, 
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate ! 

" Oh ! curse me not," she criel, a? wild he 
toss'd 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Elis desperate hand toward heaven " though 

I am lost, 
Think not that guilt, that falsehood made 

me fall ; 
No, no 'twas grief, 'twas madness did it 

all! 
Nay, doubt me not though all thy love hath 

ceased 

I know it hath yet, yet believe, at least, 
That every spark of reason's light must be 
Quench'd in this brain, ere I could stray 

from thee ! 
They told me thou wert dead why, Azim, 

why 

Did we not, both of us, that instant die 
When we were parted ? oh ! couldst thou 

but know 

With what a deep devotedness of woe 
I wept thy absence o'er and o'er again 
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought 

grew pain, 
And memory, like a drep that, night and 

day, 
Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart 

away! 

Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, 
My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert to 

come, 
And all the long, long night of hope and 

fear, 

Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear 
O God ! thou wouldst not wonder that, at 

last, 

When every hope was all at once o'ercasb, 
When I heard frightful voices round me say, j " Zelica ! Zelica !" the youth exclaim'd, 
Azim is dead.' this wretched brain gave | In all the tortures of a mind inflamed 

Wa 7> Almost to madness "by that sacred heaven. 

Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be 
forgiven, 



Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere, 
Where blest at length, if I but served him 

here, 

I should forever live in thy dear sight, 
And drink from those pure eyes eternal light! 
Think, think how lost, how madden'd I must 

be, 

To hope that guflt could lead to God or thee ! 
Thou weepst for me do, weep oh ! that 1 

durst 
Kiss off that tear! but, no these lips are 

curst, 

They must not touch thee ; one divine caress, 
i One blessed moment of forgetfulness 
I've had within those arms, and that shall lie, 
Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die ! 
The last of joy's last relics here below, 
The one sweet drop in all this waste of woe, 
My heart has treasured from affection's 

spring, 

To soothe and cool its deadly withering ! 
But thou yes, thou must go forever go ; 
This place is not for thee for thee ! oh no, 
Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain 
Would burn like mine, and mine go wild 

again ! 
Enough, that gv!'< : 

once good, 

Now tainted, chill'd, and broken, are his food. 
Enough, that we are parted that there rolls 
A flood of headlong fate between our souls, 
Whose darkness severs me as wide from Uiee 
As hell from heaven, to all eternity !" 



itie tiiit i*arts, 



And 1 became a wreck, at random driven, 
Without one glimpse of reason or of heaven- 
All wild and even this quenchless love I As thou art here here, in this writhing 



within 

Turn'd to foul fires to light me into sin ! 

Thou pitiest me ! I knew thou wouldst 
that sky 

Hath naught beneath it half so lorn as I. 

The fiend who lured me hither hist ! come 
near, 

Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear 

Told me such things oh ! with such devil- 
ish art, 

As wonld have ruin'd even a holier heart 



heart, 

All sinful, wild, and ruin'd as thou art ! 
By the remembrance of our once pure love, 
Which, like a church-yard light, still burns 

above 
The graye of our lost souls which guilt in 

thee 

Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me ! 
I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence 
If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, 
Fly with me from this place " 



I'OKMS OK THOMAS MOORE. 



93 



" With thee ! O bliss, 

Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. 
What ! take the lost one with thee ? let her 

rove 

By thy deal side, as .i tnose days of love, 
When we were both so happy, both so pure 
Too heavenly dream ! if there's on earth a cure 
For the sunk heart, 'tis this day after day 
To be the blest companion of thy way ; 
To hear thy angel eloquence to see 
Those virtuous eyes forever turn'd on me ; 
And in their light rechasten'd silently, 
Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, 
Grow pure by being purely shone upon ! 
And thou wilt pray for me I know thou 

wilt 
At the dim vesper-hour, when thoughts of 

guilt 
Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt lift 

thine eyes, 

Full of sweet tears, unto the darkening skies, 
And plead forme with Heaven, till I can dare 
To tix ir.-f own weak, sinful glances there ; 
Till thf. good angels, when they see me cling 
Forevr,r near thee, pale and sorrowing, 
Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul 

forgiven, 
And bid thee take thy weeping slave to 

heaven ! 
Oh yes, I'll fly with thee " 

Scarce had she said 
These breathless words, when a voice deep 

and dread 

As that of Monker waking up the dead 
From their first sleep so startling 'twas to 

both 
Rung through the casement near, " Thy 

oath ! thy oath !" 
O Heaven, the ghastliness of that maid's 

look ! 

" 'Tis he," faintly she cried, while terror shook 
Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes, 
Though through the casement now naught 

but the skies 
And moonlight fields were seen, calm as 

before 

"'Tis he, and I am his all, all is o'ei 
Go fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too 
My oath, my oath, O God ! 'tis all too true, 
Trw as the worm in this cold heart it is 



I am Mokamia's bride his, Azim, his 
The dead stood round us while I spoke that 

vow, 

Their blue lips echo'd it I hear them now ! 
Their eyes glared on me while I pledged tba 

bowl, 

'Twas burning blood I feel it in my soul ! 
And the Veil'd Bridegroom hist ! I've seen 

to-night 

What angels know not of so foul a sight, 
So horrible oh ! never mayst thou see 
What there lies hid from all but hell and me ! 
But I must hence off, off I am not thine, 
Nor Heaven's, nor Love's, nor aught that is 

divine 
Hold me not ha ! thinkst thou the fiends 

that sever 
Hearts cannot sunder hands ? thus, then 

forever !" 

With all that strength which madness 

lends the weak, 

She flung away his arm ; and, with a shriek, 
Whose sound, though he should linger out 

more years 
Than wretch e'er told, can never leave his 

ears, 

Flew up through that long avenue of light, 
Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night 
Across the sun, and soon was out of sight ! 

Lalla Rookh could think of nothing all day 
but the misery of these two young lovers. 
Her gayety was gone, and she looked pen- 
sively even upon Fadladeen. She felt too, 
without knowing why, a sort of uneasy 
pleasure in imagining that Azim must have 
been just such a youth as Feramorz; just as 
worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without 
any of the pangs, of that illusive passion, 
which too often, like the sunny apples of 
Istkahar, 1 is all sweetness on one side, and 
all bitterness on the other. 

As they passed along a sequestered river 
after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo girl 
upon the bank, whose employment seemed to 
them so strange, that they stopped their 
palankeens to observe her. She had lighted 
a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and 

i " In the territory of Igtakhar there is a kind of apple, lia'J 
of which is sweet aud half sour." Ebn Ilaut-al 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



placing it in an earthen dish, adorned with a 
wreath of flowers, had committed it with a 
trembling hand to the stream, and was now 
ai.xiously watching its progress down the 
current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which 
had drawn up beside her. Lai la liookh was 
all curiosity ; when one of her attendants, 
who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, 
(where this ceremony is so frequent, that 
often, in the dusk of the evening, the river 
is seen glittering all over with lights, like 
t,he Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,) 1 informed 
the Princess that it was the usual way in 
which the friends of those who had gone on 
dangerous voyages offered up vows for their 
safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately, 
the omen was disastrous ; but if it went shin- 
ing down the stream, and continued to burn 
till entirely out of sight, the return of the 
beloved object was considered as certain. 

Lai la Rookh, as they moved on, more than 
once looked back to observe how the young 
Hindoo's lamp proceeded ; and while she saw 
with pleasure that it was still unextingtiished, 
she could not help fearing that all the hopes 
of this life were no better than that feeble 
light upon the river. The remainder of the 
journey was passed in silence. She now, for 
the first time, felt that shade of melancholy 
which comes over the youthful maiden's 
heart, as sweet and transient as her own 
breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she 
heard the lute of Feramorz touched lightly 
at the door of her pavilion, that she waked 
from the reverie in which she had been wan- 
dering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up 
with pleasure, and, after a few unheard re- 
marks from Fadladeen upon the indecorum 
of a poet seating himself ia presence of a 
princess, everything was arranged as on the 
preceding evening, and all listened with 
eagerness, while the story was thus con- 
tinued : 

Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the 

way, 
Where all was waste and silent yesterday? 



1 "The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, rises, 
nd where there are more than a hundred springs, which 
parkle like stars ; whence it is called Hotun-hor, that is, the 
nta of Stars - Description of Tibet in rin^~'^. 



This City of War which, in a few short hours 
Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers 
Of him who. in the twinklinsr of a star. 

7 O 3 

Built the high-pillar'd halls of Chilminar, 1 
Had conjured up, far as the eye can see, 
This world of tents' and domes and sun- 
bright armory ! 

Princely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold 
Of crimson cloth, and topp'd with balls of 

gold ; 

Steeds, with their housings of rich silver spun, 
Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun ; 
And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells,' 
Shaking in every breeze their light-toned 
bells! 

But yester-eve, so motionless around, 
So mute was this wide plain, that not a 

sound 

But the far torrent, or the Iou8t-bird,' 
Hunting among the thickets, could be 

heard ; 

Yet hark ! what discords now of every kind, 
Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in 

the wind ! 

The neigh of cavalry ; the tinkling throngs 
Of laden camels and their drivers' songs ;* 
Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze 
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies ; 
War-music, bursting out from time to time 
With gong and tymbalon's tremendous 

chime; 
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are 

mute, 

The mellow breathings of some horn or flute. 
That far off, broken by the eagle note 
Of the Abyssinian trumpet," swell and float ! 



* The edifices of Chilminar and Baalbec are supposed to 
have been built by the genii, acting under the orders of Jan 
ben Jan, who governed the world long before the time of Adam. 

1 "A eupcrb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of 
small shells." AH Bey. 

4 A native of Knoras&an, and ailured southward by means 
of the water of a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called 
the Fountain of Birds, of which it is so fond that it will follow 
wherever that water is carried. 

" Some of the camels have bells about their necks, and 
some about their legs, like those which our carriers put about 
their fore-horses' necks." filt't Account of the itoham 
meclam. 

"The camel-driver follows the camel singing, and some- 
times playing upon his pipe; the louder he sings and pipes, 
the faster the camels go. Nay, they will stand still when h 
gives over his music." Tacernier. 

' ' This trumpet is often called in Abyssinia Xattr Cui 
which signifies the Note i f the Eagle." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



95 



Who leads this mighty army ? ask ye 

" who ?" 

And mark ye not those banners of dark hue, 
The Nightand Shadow,' over yonder tent ? 
It is the Caliph's glorious armament. 
Roused in his palace by the dread alarms, 
That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms 
And of his host of infidels, who hurl'd 
Defiance fierce at Islam* and the world ; 
Though worn with Grecian warfare, and 

behind 

The veils of his bright palace calm reclined, 
Yet brook'd he not such blasphemy should 

stain, 

Thus unrevenged the evening of his reign, 
But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave 3 
To conquer or to perish, once more gave 
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze, 
And with an army nursed in victories, 
Here stands to crush the rebels that o'errun 
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sim. 

Ne'er did the march of Mahadi display 
Such pomp before ; not even when on his 

way 

To Mecca's temple, when both land and sea 
Were spoil'd to feed the pilgrim's luxury; 4 
When round him, 'mid the burning sands, 

he saw 

Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, 
And cool'd his thirsty lip, beneath the glow 
Of Mecca's sun, with urns of Persian snow: 
Nor e'er did armament more grand than that 
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat. 
First in the van, the People of the Rock, 5 
On their light mountain steeds of royal stock ;' 
Then Chieftains of Damascus, proud to see 
The flashing of their swords rich marque- 
try ;' 



i " The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the 
House of Abbas were called, allcgorically, 'The Night and 
The Shadow.' " 

1 The Mohammedan religion. 

1 "The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shah Besade, who 
'. buried at Casbiu ; and when one desires another to assev- 
erate a matter he will ask him if he dare swear by the Holy 
Grave." 

4 Mahadi. in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six 
millions of dinars of gold. 

* ' The Inhabitants of Uejaz, or Arabia Petraa, called ' The 
People of the Rock.' " 

" Those horses, called by the Arabians Kochlanl, of whom 
wriiten genealogy hah been kept for 2000 years. They are 
#aitl lo derive their origin from King Solomon's steeds." 

: ' Jlaiiy of the figures on the blades of their swords are 
Touf.ht in gold or silver, or in marquetry with small i'em." 



Men from the regions near the Volga's mouth 
Mix'd with the rude, black archers of the 

South ; 

And Indian lancers, in white turban'd ranks 
From the far Sinde, or Attock's sacred banks, 
With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,' 
And many a mace-arm'd Moor and Mid-Sea 

Islander. 

Nor less in number, though more new and 

rude 

In warfare's school, was the vast multitude 
That, fired by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd, 
Round the white standard of the Impostor 

throng'd. 

Beside his thousands of Believers, blind, 
Burning, and headlong as th* 1 Samiel wind, 
Many who felt, and more who fear'd to feel 
The bloody Islamite's converting steel, 
Flock'd to his banner: Chiefs of the Uzbek 

race, 
Waving their heron crests with martial 

grace ;* 

Turkomans, countless as their flocks, led forth 
From the aromatic pastures of the North , 
Wild warriors of the turquoise hills,'" and 

those 

Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows 
Of Hindoo Kosh, in stormy freedom bred, 
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's 

bed. 

But none, of all who own'd the chief's com- 
mand 

Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand 
Or sterner hate than Iran's outlaw'd men, 
Her Worshippers of Fire" all panting then 
For vengeance on the accursed Saracen ; 
Vengeance at last for their dear country 

spurn'd, 
Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrines 

o'erturn'd. 
From YezdV eternal Mansion of the Fire, 



Azab or Saba. 

" The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars wear a plume of whit* 
heron's feathers in their turbans." 

i" "In the mountains of Nishaponr and Tous in Khorassan 
they flnd turquoises." 

I: The Ghebere or Guebres, those original natives of Persia 
who adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, 
and who, after the conquest of their country by the Arabs, 
were either persecuted at home or forced to become wan- 
derer? abroad. 

12 " Ye/d, the chief residence of those ancient natives who 
I worship the Suu and the Fire, which latter thty have c*i 



96 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE. 



Where aged saints in dreams of heaven expire ; 
From Badku, and those fountains of blue 

flame 

That burn into the Caspian, 1 fierce they came, 
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, 
So vengeance triumph'd and their tyrants 

bled! 

Such was the wild and miscellaneous host 
That high in air their motley banners toss'd 
Around the Prophet-Chief all eyes still bent 
Upon that glittering veil, where'er it went, 
That beacon through the battle's stormy 

flood, 
That rainbow of the field, whose showers 

were blood ! 

Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set, 
And risen again, and found them grappling 

yet; 
While steams of carnage, in his noon-tide 

blaze, 
Smoke up to heaven hot as that crimson 

haze' 

By which the prostrate caravan is awed 
In the red desert when the wind's abroad ! 
" On, Swords of God !" the panting Caliph 

calls, 
"Thrones for the living heaven for him 

who falls !" 

" On, brave avengers, on," Mokanna cries, 
" And Eblis blast the recreant slave that 

flies !" 

Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the da} 7 
They clash they strive the Caliph's troops 

give way ! 

Mokanna's self plucks the black banner down, 
And now the orient world's imperial crown 
Is just within his grasp when, hark, that 

shout ! 
Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslems' 

rout, 



lUUy kept lighted, without being once eitingnished for a 
moment, above 3000 years, on a mountain near Yezd. called 
A.ter Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the Fire. 
He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain." 
" When the weather is hazy, the springs of naphtha (on an 
Island near Baku) boil up the higher, and the naphtha often 
lakes fire on the surface of the earth, and runs in a liamc iuto 
the tea to a distance almost incredible." 

' Ssvary says "Torrents of burning sand roll before it. the 
rrna:nent is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears 
of the colo.- of blood. Sometimes whole caravans are buried 
in it." 



And now they turn they rally at their head 
A warrior (like those angel youths, who led, 
In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail, 
The Champions of the Faith through Beder's 



Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, 
Turns on the tierce pursuers' blades, and 

drives 

At once the multitudinous torrent back, 
While hope and courage kindle in his track, 
And, at eaeli step, his bloody falchion makes 
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks ! 
In vain Mokanna, 'midst the general flight, 
Stands like the red moon, on some stormy 

night 

Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, 
Leave only her unshaken in the sky ! 
In vain he yells his desperate curses out, 
Deals death promiscuously to all about, 
To foes that charge and coward friends thai 

fly, 

And seems of all the great arch-enemy ! 
The panic spreads" A miracle !" throughout 
The Moslem ranks," A miracle!" they shout, 
All, gazing on that youth, whose coming 

seems 

A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams ; 
And every sword, true as o'er billows dim 
The needle tracks the load-star, following 

him! 

Right toward Mokanna now he cleaves his 

path, 
Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of 

wrath 
He bears from Heaven withheld its awful 

burst 
From weaker heads, and souls but half-way 

curst, 
To break o'er him, the mightiest and the ' 

worst ! 
But vain his speed though, in that hour of 

blood, 

Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood, 
With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, 
Mokanna's soul would have defied them all ; 
Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong 
For human force, hurries even him along ; 



1 "In the preat victory gained by Mohamm at Beder, ta< 
was nsr-ifK'd by threi- thousand augela, led by Gabriel tnoanteo 
on hi* horse Iliazutn." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOilE. 



97 






In vain he struggles 'mid the wedged array 
Of flying thousands, he is borne away ; 
And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows 
In this forced flight is murdering, as he 

goes ! 

As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might 
Surprises in some paroh'd ravine at night, 
Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched 

flocks 
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the 

rocks, 

And, to the last, devouring on his way, 
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to 

stay! 

" Alia il Alia !" the glad shout renew 
" Alia Akbar !'" the Caliph's in Merou. 
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, 
And light your shrines and chant your zira- 

leets ;* 
The Sword of God hath triumph'd on his 

throne 
Your Caliph sits, and the Veil'd Chief hath 

flown. 

Who does not envy that young warrior now, 
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow, 
In all the graceful gratitude of power, 
For his throne's safety in that perilous hour ! 
Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the 

acclaim 

Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name 
'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame 
Which sound along the path of virtuous 

souls, 

Like music round a planet as it rolls ! 
He turns away, coldly, as if some gloom 
Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can il- 
lume ; 

Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze 
Though glory's light may play, in vain it 

plays ! 

Yes, wretched Azim ! thine is such a grief, 
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief; 
A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can 

break, 
Or warm, or brighten, like that Syrian Lake' 



The Tecbir, or cry of the Arabs. " Alia Acbar I" says 
Ockley, " means God is most mighty." 

1 "The ziraleet is a kind of chorus which th<> women of the 
Bast, sing npon jojful occasions." 

The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal nor regeta- 
Jlelife. 



Upon whose surface morn and summer shed 
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is 

dead ! 
Hearts there have been o'er which this weight 

of woe 
Came by louer use of suffering, tame and 

slow, 
But thine, lost youth ! was sudden over 

thee 

It broke at once, when all seem'd ecstasy ; 
When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy 

past 

Melt into splendor, and bliss dawn at last 
'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so freshly 

blown, 

This mortal blight of misery came down ; 
Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy 

heart 
Were check'd like fount-drops, frozen as 

they start ! 
And there, like them, cold, sunless relics 

hang, 
Each fix'd and chill'd into a lasting pang ! 

One sole desire, one passion now remains, 
To keep life's fever still within his veins, 
Vengeance ! dire vengeance on the wretch 

who cast 

O'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast. 
For this, when rumors reach'd him in hii 

flight 

Far, far away, after that fatal night, 
Rumors of armies, thronging to the attack 
Of the Veil'd Chief, for this he wing'd him 

back, 

Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl'd, 
And came when all seem'd lost, and wildly 

hurl'd 

Himself into the scale, and saved a world I 
For this he still lives on, careless of all 
The wreaths that glory on his path lets fall ; 
For this alone exists like lightning-fire 
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire 1 

But safe as yet that spirit of evil lives; 
With a small band of desperate fugitives, 
The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven, 
Of the proud host that late stood fronting 

Heaven, 

He gain'd Merou breathed a short curse of 
blood 



TOEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



O'er his lost throne then pass'd the Jihon's 

flood, 1 

And gathering all whose madness of belief 
Still saw a savioui in their down-fallen 

Chief, 
Raised the white banner within Neksheb's 

gates, 1 
And there, untamed, the approaching con- 

qneror waits. 

Of all his tlaram, all that busy hive, 
With music and with sweets sparkling alive, 
He took but one, the partner of his flight, 
One, not for love not for her beauty's 

light 

For Zelica stood withering midst the gay, 
Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday 
From the Alma-tree and dies, while overhead 
To-day's young dower is springing in its 

stead !' 

No, not for love the deepest damn'd must be 
Touch'd with heaven's glory, ere such fiends 

as he 

Can feel one glimpse of love's divinity ! 
But no, she is his victim : there lie all 
Her charms for him charms that can never 

pall, 

As long as hell within his heart can stir, 
Or one faint trace of heaven is left in her. 
To work an angel's ruin, to behold 
As white a page as Virtue e'er unroll'd 
Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll 
Of damning sins, seal'd with a burning soul 
This is his triumph ; this the joy accurst, 
That ranks him among demons all but first ! 
This gives the victim that before him lies 
Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes, 
A light like that with which hell-fire illumes 
The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it con- 
sumes !. 

But other tasks now wait him tasks that 

need 

All the deep daringness of thought and deed 
With which the Dives' have gifted him for 

mark, 



1 The ancient Oxns. 

* A city of Transoxiania. 

" Yon never can cast yonr eyes on this tree bnt yon meet 
Ihere either blossoms or frnit; and as the blossoms drop 
inderaeath on the ground, other* come forth in their stead." 

4 The demons of the Persian mythology- 



Over yon plains, which night had else mad 

dark, 

Those lanterns, countless as the wingdd lights 
That spangle India's fields on showery 

nights,* 

Far as their formidable gleams they shed, 
The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread, 
Glimmering along the horizon's dusky line, 
And thence in nearer circles, till they shine 
Among the founts and groves, o'er which 

the town 

In all its arm'd magnificence looks down. 
Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements 
Mokanna views that multitude of tents ; 
Nay. smiles to think that, though entoil'cJ, 

beset, 
Not less than myriads dare to front him 

yet; 
That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at 

bay, 

Even thus a match for myriads such as they ! 
" Oh for a sweep of that dark angel's wing, 
Who brush'd the thousands of the Assyrian 

king* 

To darkness in a moment, that I might 
People hell's chambers with yon host to 

night ! 
But come what may, let who will grasp the 

throne, 

Caliph or Prophet, man alike shall groan ; 
Let who will torture him, Priest Caliph 

King- 
Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring 
With victims' shrieks and bowlings of the 

slave, 
Sounds that shall glad me even within my 

grave !" 

Thus to himself but to the scanty train 
Still left around him, a far different strain : 
" Glorious defenders of the sacred Crown 
I bear from heaven, whose light nor blood 

shall drown 
Nor shadow of earth eclipse ; before whose 

gems 

The paly pomp of this world's diadems, 
The crown of Gerashid, the pillard throne' 



' Carreri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rai r.y 
season. 

"Sennacherib, called by the orientals King of Monacal." 

1 There were said to he under this throne or palace of Khos- 

ron Parviz a hundred vaults filled with " treasures so immense, 

that some Mnhanttncaan writers tell as, their Prophet, tn eo 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



99 



Of Parviz, 1 and the heron crest that shone,' 
Magnificent, o'er Ali's beauteous eyes," 
Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies : 
Warriors, rejoice the port, to which we've 

pass'd 

O'er destiny's dark wave, beams out at last ! 
Victory's our own 'tis written in that Book 
Upon whose leaves none but the angels look, 
That Islam's sceptre shall beneath the power 
Of her great foe fall broken in that hour 

o 

When the moon's mighty orb, before all eyes, 
From Neksheb's Holy Well portentously 

shall rise ! 
Now turn and see !" 

They turn'd, and, as he spoke, 
A sudden splendor all around them broke, 
And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, 4 
Rise from the Holy Well, and cast its light 
Round the rich city and the plain for miles,' 
Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles 
Of many a dome and fair-roof 'd imaret, 
As autumn suns shed round them when they 

set! 

Instant from all who saw the illusive sign 
A murmur broke " Miraculous ! divine !" 
The Gheber bow'd, thinking his idol Star 
Had waked, and burst impatient through 

the bar 

Of midnight, to inflame him to the war ! 
While he of Moussa's creed saw in that ray 
The glorious Light which, in his freedom's 

day, 

Had rested on the Ark,' and now again 
Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain ! 

courage his disciples, carried them to a rock, which at his 
command opened, and gave them a prospect through it of the 
treasures of Khosron." Universal History. 
1 Choroes. 

' The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before 
the heron tuft of thy turban." From one of the elegies or 
ongii in praise of Ali, written in characters of gold round the 
gallery of Abbas's tomb. 

' " The beauty of Ali's eyes was so remarkable that, when- 
ever the Persians would describe anything -v loviv 
they say it Is Ayn Hali, or the ey~ i* > li . '' 

' We are not told more of ^>i tricK of tne Impostor, man 
tnat it was "une machine qu'il disoit 6tre la lune." Accord- 
ing to Richardson, the miracle is perpetuated in Nekscheb 
" Nakshab, the name of a city in Transoxiania, where they 
say there is a well in which the appearance of the moon is to 
bo seen night and day." 

" n unnsa pendant deux mois le peuple de la ville de Nekh- 
icheb en faisant sortir tontes les nuits du fonds d'un putts un 
corps lumineux semblable a la lune, qni portoit sa lumiere 
(usqu'a la distance de plusieurs m\}\ee."l>'Herbelot. Hence 
he was called Sazendeh Man, or the Moon-maker. 

The Shechinah, called Sakinat in the Koran ; vide Sale. 



"To victory !" is at once the ciy of all 
Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call ; 
But instant the huge gates are flung aside, 
And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide 
Into the boundless sea, they speed their course 
Right on into the Moslems' mighty force, 
The watchmen of the camp, who, in their 

rounds, 
Had paused, and even forgot the punctual 

sounds 
Of the small drum with which they count 

the night,' 

To gaze upon that supernatural light, 
Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, 
And in a death-groan give their last alarm. 
" On for the lamps that light yon lofty 

screen," 
Nor blunt your blades with massacre sr 

mean ; 
There rests the Caliph speed one lucky 

lance 

May now achieve mankind's deliverance !" 
Desperate the die such as they only cast 
Who venture for a world, and stake their last. 
But Fate's no longer with him blade for 

blade 

Springs up to meet them through the glim- 
mering shade, 

And as the clash is heard, new legions soon 
Pour to the spot, like bees of Kauzeroon,* 
To the shrill timbrel's summons, till, at 

length, 
The mighty camp swarms out in all its 

strength, 
And back to Neksheb's gates, covering the 

plain 
With random slaughter, drives the adven 

turous train ; 

Among the last of whom, the Silver Veil 
Is seen, glittering at times, like the white sa.. 
Of some toss'd vessel, on a stormy night, 
Catching the tempest's momentary light ! 



T " The parts of the night are made known as well by In- 
struments of music as by the rounds of the watchmen with 
cries and small drums." 

" The Serrapnrda, high screens of red cloth stiffened with 
cane, used to enclose a considerable space ronnd'the royal 
tents." 

The tents of princes were generally illuminated. Norden 
tells us that the tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished 
from the other tents by forty lanterns being suspended before 
it. Vide " Banner's Observations on Job." 

" From the groves of orange-trees at Kauzeroon the bew 
cull a celebrated honey." 



100 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And hath not this brought the proud spirit 

low? 
Nor dash'd bia brow, nor check'd his daring ? 

No, 
Though half the wretches whom at night he 

led 
To thrones and victory lie disgraced and 

dead, 
Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking 

crest, 
Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the 

. rest ; 

And they believe him I oh, the lover may 
Distrust that look which steals his soul away ! 
The babe may cease to think that it can play 
With heaven's rainbow; alchymists may 

doubt 

The shining gold their crucible gives out, 
But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast 
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. 

And well the Impostor knew all lures and 

arts 

That Lucifer e'er taught to tangle hearts ; 
Nor, 'mid these last bold workings of h,is plot 
Against men's souls, is Zelica forgot. 
Ill-fated Zelica ! had reason been 
Awake through half the horrors thou hast 

seen, 
Thou never couldst have borne it Death 

had come 

At once and taken thy wrung spirit home. 
But 'twas not so a torpor, a suspense 
Of thought, almost of life, came o'er the 

intense 

And passionate struggles of that fearful night, 
When her last hope of peace and heaven 

took flight : 
And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy 

broke, 

As through some dull volcano's veil of smoke 
Ominous flashings now and then will start, 
Which show the fire's still busy at its heart ; 
Yet was she mostly wrapp'd in sullen 

gloom, 

Not such as Azim's, brooding o'er its doom, 
And calm without, as is the brow of death, 
While busy worms are gnawing under- 
neath ! 

But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free 
From thought or pain, a seal'd-up apathy, 



Which left her oft, with scarce one li\ing 

thrill, 
The cold, pale victim of her torturer's wilL 

Again, as in Merou, he had her deck'd 
Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect; 
And led her glittering forth before the eye* 
Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice ; 
Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride 
Of the fierce Nile, when, deck'd in all the pride 
Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide !' 
And while the wretched maid hung down 

her head, 

And stood, as one just risen from the dead, 
Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell 
His credulous slaves it was some charm or 

spell 
Possess'd her now, and from that darken'd 

trance 

Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliver- 
ance. 

Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame, 
Her soul was roused, and words of wildcess 

came, 

Instant the bold blasphemer would translate 
Her ravings into oracles of fate, 
Would bail Heaven's signals in her flashing 

eyes, 
And call her shrieks the language of the skies I 

But vain at length his arts despair is seen 
Gathering around ; and famine comes to glean 
All that the sword had left unreap'd ; in vain 
At morn and eve across the northern plain 
He looks impatient for the promised spears 
Of the wild hordes and Tartar mountaineers ; 
They come not while his fierce beleaguerers 

pour 
Engines of havoc in, unknown before,* 



1 " A custom, still subsisting at this day, seems to me to 
prove that the Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin 
to the god of the Nile ; for they now make a statue of earth IB 
shape of a girl, to which they give the name of the Betrothed 
Bride, and throw it into the river." Savory. 

* That they knew the secret of the Greek fire amonf the 
Mussulmans early in the eleventh century, appears from Dow'i 
Account of Mamood I. : " When he had launched this fleet, 
he ordered twenty archers Into each boat, and five others with 
fire-balls, to bum the craft of the Jits, and naphtha to set the 
whole river on fire/' 

The Agnee aster, too, in Indian poems, the Instrument of 
Fire, whose flame cannot be extinguished, is supposed to 
signify the Greek Fire. Vide " Wilks's South of India," voL 
i., p. 471. 

The mention of gunpowder as in use among the Arabians, 
long before its supposed discovery in Europe, Ij introduced 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



101 



And horrible as new ;' javelins, that fly 
Eriwreath'd with smoky flames through the 

dark sky, 
And red-hot globes that, opening as they 

mount, 

Discharge,' as from a kindled naphtha fount," 
Showers of consuming fire o'er all below ; 
Looking, as through the illumined night 

they go, 
Like those wild birds' that by the Magians 

oft, 

At festivals of fire, were sent aloft 
Into the air, with blazing fagots tied 
To their huge wings, scattering combustion 

wide ! 

All night, the groans of wretches who ex- 
pire 

In agony beneath these darts of fire 
Ring through the city while, descending 

o'er 

Its shrines and domes and streets of syca- 
more ; 
Its lone bazaars, with their bright cloth of 

gold, 

Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll'd ; 
Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets 
Now gush with blood ; and its tall minarets, 
That late have stood up in the evening glare 
Of the red sun, unhallow'd by a prayer; 
O'er each in turn the terrible flame-bolts fall, 
And death and conflagration throughout all 
The desolate city hold high festival ! 



by Kbn Fadhl, the Egyptian geographer who lived in the 
thirteenth century. " Bodies," he says, " in the form of scor- 
pions, bound round and filled with nitrous powder, glide along, 
making a gentle noise ; then, exploding, they lighten as it 
were, and burn. But there are others, which, cast into the 
air, stretch along like a cloud, roaring horribly, as thunder 
roars, and on all sides vomiting out names, burst, burn, and 
reduce to cinders whatever comes in their way." The his- 
torian Ben Abdalla, In speaking of Abulualid in the year of 
Hegira 712, says, " a fiery globe, by means of combustible 
matter, with a mighty noise suddenly emitted, strikes with 
the force of lightning, and shakes the citadel." Vide the 
extracts from "Casiri's Biblioth. Arab. Hispan.," in the 
Appendix to " Berrington's Literary History of the Middle 
Ages." 

: The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the Em- 
perors to their allies 

3 See lianway's " Account of the Springs of Naphtha at 
Baku" (which is called by Lieutenant Pottinger, Joala Mook 
bee, or the Flaming Mouth), taking fire, and running into the 

<!*. 

1 At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Seze, they 
used to set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fastened 
round wild beasts and birds, which being then let loose, the 
air and earth appeared one great illumination ; and as these 
terrified creatures naturally fled to the wood for shelter, it is 
tasv to conceive the conflagrations they produced." 



Mokiinna sees the world is his no more; 
One sting at parting, and his grasp is o'er. 
" What ! drooping now ?" thus, with un- 
blushing cheek, 
He hails the few who yet can hear him speak, 
Of all those famish'd slaves around him lying, 
And by the light of blazing temples dying; 
What ! drooping now ? now, when at 

length we press 

Home o'er the very threshold of success ; 
When Alia from our ranks hath thinn'd away 
Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray 
Of favor from us, and we stand at length' 
Heirs of his light and children of his strength, 
The chosen few who shall survive the fall 
Of kings and thrones, triumphant over all ! 
Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you 

are, 
All faith in him who was your light, your 

star ? 

Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid 
Beneath this veil, the flashing of whose lid 
Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither 
Millions of such as yonder chief brings hither ' 
Long have its lightnings slept too long 

but now 

All earth shall feel the unveiling of this bro* ! 
To-night yes, sainted men ' this very night, 
I bid you all to a fair festal nte, 
Where, having deep refresh'd each weary 

limb 

With viands such as feast heaven's cherubim, 
And kindled up your souls, now sunk and dim, 
With that pure wine the dark-eyed maids 

above 
Keep, seal'd with precious musk, for those 

they love,' 

I will myself uncurtain in your sight 
The wonders of this brow's ineffable light ; 
Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse 
Yon myriads, howling through the universe !" 

Eager they listen while each accent darts 
life into their chill'd and hope-sick 
hearts ; 
Such treacherous life as the cool draught 

supplies 
To mm upon the stake, who drinks and dies ! 



"The righteous shall be given to drink of pure win*, 
pealed; the seal whereof shall be mmfe."- Koran. cha. 
IxxxiiL 



102 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Wildly they point their lances to the light 
Of the fast-sinking sun, and shout, "To- 
night !" 

" To-night," their chief re-echoes in a voice 
Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice ! 
Deluded victims never hath this earth 
Seen mourning half so mournful as their 

mirth ! 

Mere, to the few whose iron frames had stood 
This racking Waste of famine and of blood, 
Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the 

shout 

Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out; 
There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire, 
Danced, like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre, 
Among the dead and dying strew d around ; 
While some pale wretch look'd on, and from 

his wound 

Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled, 
[n ghastly transport waved it o'er his head ! 

'Twas more than midnight now a fear- 
ful pause 

Had follow'd the long shouts, the wild ap- 
plause, 

That lately from those royal gardens burst, 
Where the veil'd demon held his feast accurst, 
When Zelica alas, poor ruin'd heart, 
In every horror doom'd to bear its part ! 
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, 
Who, while his quivering lip the summons 

gave, 
Grew black, as though the shadows of the 

grave 

Compass'd him round, and ere he could repeat 
His message through, fell lifeless at her feet ! 
Shuddering she went a soul-felt pang of fear, 
A presage that her own dark doom was near, 
Roused every feeling, and brought reason 

back 

Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack. 
All round seem'd tranquil even the foe bad 

ceased, 

As if aware of that demoniac feast, 
His fiery bolts; and though the heavens 

look'd red, 

Twas but some distant conflagration's spread. 
But hark ! she stops she listens dread- 
ful tone ! 

Tis her tormentor's laugh and now, a groan, 
A long death -groan comes with it can this be 



The place of mirth, the bower of revelry ? 

She enters Holy Alia, what a sight 

Was there before her ! By the glimmering 

light 
Of the pale dawn, mix'd with the flare of 

brands 

That round lay burning, dropp'd from life- 
less hands, 
She saw the board, in splendid mockery 

spread, 

Rich censers breathing garlands over- 
head, 
The urns, the cups, from which they late 

had quaffd, 
All gold and gems, but what had been the 

draught ? 
O-h ! who need ask, that saw those livid 

guests, 
With their swoln heads sunk blackening on 

their breasts, 

Or looking pale to heaven with glassy glare, 
As if they sought but saw no mercy there ; 
As if they felt, though poison rack'd them 

through, 

Remorse the deadlier torment of the two I 
While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train 
Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain 
Would have met death with transport by 

his side, 
Here mute and helpless gasp'd ; but as 

they died, 
Look'd horrible vengeance with their eyes' 

last strain 
And clench'd the slackening hand at him in 

vain. 

Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare 
The stony look of horror and despair 
Which some of these expiring victims cast 
Upon their souls' tormentor to the last ; 
Upon that mocking fiend, whose veil, now 

raised, 

Show'd them, as in death's agony they gazed, 
Not the long-promised light, the brow whose 

beaming 

Was to come forth, all-conquering, all- 
redeeming, 
But features horribler than hell e'er traeed 
On its own brood ; no Demon of the Waste/ 



1 "The Afghanns believe each of the numerous solitude* 
and deserts of their country to be inhabited by a lonely demoi 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



103 



No churchyard ghole, caught lingering in 

the light 

Of the blest sun, e'er blasted human sight 
With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those 
The Impostor now, in grinning mockery, 

shows 
" There, ye wise saints, behold your Light, 

your Star 

Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are. 
Is it enough ? or must I, while a thrill 
Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still ? 
Swear that the burning death ye feel within 
Is but the trance with which heaven's joys 

begin ; 

That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced 
Even monstrous man, is after God's own 

taste ; 

And that but see ! ere I have half-way said 
My greetings through, the uncourteous souls 

arc fled. 

Farewell, sweet spirits ! not in vain ye die, 
If Eblis loves you half so well as I. 
Ha, my young bride ! 'tis well take thou 

thy seat ; 
Nay, come no shuddering didst thou 

never meet 

The dead before ? they graced our wed- 
ding, sweet ; 
And these, my guests to-night, have brimm'd 

so true 
Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge 

one too. 

But how is this ? all empty.? all drunk up ? 
Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, 
Young bride : yet stay one precious drop 

remains, 

Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins ; 

Here, drink and should thy lover's conquer- 
ing arms 

Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, 
Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, 
And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss ! 

" For me I too must die but not like 

these 

\ r ile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze ; 
To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, 
With all death's grimness added to it own, 



whom they call the Qholee Beeaban, or Spirit of the Waste. 
The; often illustrate the wildness of any sequestered tribe, 
rj saying they are wild ai the Demon of the Waste." 



And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes 
Of slaves, exclaiming, 'There his godship 

lies !' 
No, curse'd race, since first my love drew 

breath, 
They've been my dupes, and shall be, even 

in death. 
Thou seest yon cistern in the shade, 'tis 

filled 
With burning drugs, for this last hour dis- 

till'd ;' 

There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame 
Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame ! 
There perish, all ere pulse of thine shall 

fail 

Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. 
So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave, 
Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint 

it gave ; 

But I've but vanish'd from this earth a while, 
To come again, with bright, unshronded 

smile ! 

So shall they build me altars in their zeal, 
Where knaves challministek, ar,l fooio shai. 

kneel ; 
Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic 

spell, 

Written in blood and Bigotry may swell 
The sail he spreads for heaven with blast? 

for hell ! 

So shall my banner through long ages be 
The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy; 
Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokanna's name, 
And, though I die, my spirit, still the same, 
Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, 
And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in 

life! 
But, hark ! their battering engine shakes the 

wall 

Why, let it shake thus I can brave them all. 
No trace of me shall greet them when they 

come, 
And I can trust thy faith, for thou'lt be 

dumb. 

Now mark how readily a wretch like me 
In one bold plunge commences Deity !" 



> " n donna da poison dans le Tin a tons ses gens, et se Jett 
Iui-in5me ensnite dans one cnve pleine de drogues brftlant'-* 
et consumantes, afin qn'il ne restat rien de tons les membiv* 
de son corps, etqne ceux qui restoient de sa secteputse^in 
crolre qu'il etoit montfi au cif \ ce qni ne manq.na paa d ; 



104 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



He sprung, and sunk as the last words 

were said 

Quick closed the burning waters o'er his head, 
And Zelica was left within the ring 
Of those wide walls the only living tiling; 
The only wretched one, still cursed with 

breath, 

In all that frightful wilderness of death ! 
More like some bloodless ghost, such as, 

they tell, 

In the lone Cities of the Silent 1 dwell, 
And there, unseen of all but Alia, sit 
Each by its own pale carcase, watching it. 

Bat morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs 
Throughout the camp of the beieaguerers. 
Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent 
By Greece to conquering Mahadi) are spent ; 
And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent 
From high balistas, and the shielded throng 
Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along, 
All speak the impatient Islamite's intent 
To try, at length, if tower and battlement 
And bastion'd wall be not less hard to win, 
Less tough to break down than the hearts 

within. 

First in impatience and in toil is he, 
The burning Azim oh I could he but see 
That monster once alive within his grasp, 
Not the gaunt lion's hug, nor boa's clasp, . 
Could match that gripe of vengeance, or 

keep pace 
With the fell heartiness of hate's embrace ! 

Loud rings the ponderous ram against the 

walls ; 
Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress 

falls, 
But still no breach "Once more, one 

mighty swing 

Of all your beams, together thundering !" 
There the wall shakes the shouting troops 

exult 
"Quick, quick discharge your weightiest 

catapult 
Right on that spot, and Neksheb is our 

own!" 



They have all a great reverence for burial-grounds, 
which they sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of 
the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of the 
leparted, who fl> each at tin bead of his own grave invisible 
to mortal eye." 



'Tis done the battlements come crashing 

down, 
And the huge wall, by that stroke riven in 

two, 

Yawning like some old crater rent anew, 
Shows the dim, desolate city smoking 

through ! 
But strange ! no signs of life naught living 

seen 

Above, below what can this stillness mean ? 
A minute's pause suspends all hearts and 

eyes 
" In through the breach," impetuous Azim 

cries; 

But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile 
In this blank stillness, checks the troops a 

while. 

Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanced 
Forth from the ruin'd walls ; and, as there 

glanced 

A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see 
The well-known Silver Veil! "'Tis he, 'tis 

he, 

Mokanna, and alone !" they shout around t 
Young Azim from his steed springs to the 

ground 
" Mine, Holy Caliph ! mine," he cries, " the 

task 

To crush yon daring wretch 'tis all I ask. * 
Eager he darts to meet the demon foe, 
Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow 
And falteringly comes, till they are near ; 
Then, with a b<jund, rushes on Azim's spear, 
And, casting off the veil in falling, shows 
Oh ! 'tis his Zelica's life-blood that flows ! 

" I meant not, Azim," soothingly she said, 
As on his trembling arm she lean'd her head, 
And, looking in his face, saw anguish there 
Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can 

bear 
" I meant not thou shouldst have the pain of 

this ; 

Though death with thee thus tasted is a bliss 
Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but 

know 

How oft I've pray'd to God I might die so ! 
But the fiend's venom was too scant and 

slow ; 

To linger on were maddening and I thought 
If once that veil nay, look not on it caught 



1 J OEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE. 



105 



The eyes of your tierce soldiery, I should be 
Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly. 
But this is sweeter oh ! believe me, yes 
I would not change this sad, but dear caress, 
This death within thy arms I would not give 
For the most smiling life the happiest live ! 
All that stood dark and drear before the eye 
Of my stray'd soul is passing swiftly by ; 
A light conies o'er me from those looks of 

love, 

Like the first dawn of mercy from above ; 
And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven, 
Angels will echo the blest words in heaven ! 
But live, my Azim ; oh ! to call thee mine 
Thus once again ! my Azim- dream divine ! 
Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet 
Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet, 
Oh, live to pray for her to bend the knee 
Morning and night before that Deity 
To whom pure lips and hearts, without a stain, 
As thine are, Azim, never breathed in vain, 
And pray that he may pardon her, may take 
Compassion on hfr soul for thy dear sake, 
And naught rjiuembering but her love to 

thee, 

Make her all thine, all His, eternally ! 
Go to those happy fields where first we twined 
Our youthful hearts together every wind 
That meets thee there, fresh from the well- 
known flowers, 
Will bring the sweetness of those innocent 

hours 

Back to thy soul, and thou mayst feel again 
For thy poor Zelica as thou didst then: 
So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies 
To heaven upon the morning's sunshine, rise 
With all love's earliest ardor to the skies ! 
And should they but, alas ! my senses fail 
Oh for one minute ! should thy prayers 

prevail 
If pardon'd souls may from that world of 

bliss 

Reveal their joy,to those they love in this, 
I'll come to thee in some sweet dream 

and tell 
Heaven ! I die Dear love ! farewell, 

farewell !" 

Time fleeted years on years had pass'd 

away, 
And few of those who, on that mournful day, 



Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see 
The maiden's death, and the youth's agony, 
Were living still when, by a rustic grave 
Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave, 
An aged man, who had grown aged there 
By that lone grave, morning and night in 

prayer, 
For the last time knelt down and, though 

the shade 
Of death hung darkening over him, there 

play'd 

A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek 
That brighten'd even death like the last 

streak 

Of intense glory on the horizon's brim, 
When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and 

dim, 

His soul had seen a vision while he slept ; 
She for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept 
So many years, had come to him, all drest 
In angel smiles, and told him she was blest i 
For this the old man breathed his thanks, 

and died. 

And there, upon the banks of that loved tide. 
He and his Zelica sleep side by side. 



The story of the Veiled Prophet of Kho- 
rassan being ended, they were now doomed 
to hear Fadladeen's criticisms upon it. A 
series of disappointments and accidents had 
occurred to this learned chamberlain during 
the journey. In the first place, those cou- 
riers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, 
between Delhi and the western coast of 
India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes 
for the royal table, had, by some cruel irreg- 
ularity, failed in their duty ; and to eat any 
mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of 
course, impossible. 1 In the next place, the 
elephant, laden with his fine antique porce- 
lain," had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shat- 



i "The celebrity of Mazagong is owing to its mangoes, 
which are certainly the best frnit I ever tasted. The parent 
tree, from which all those of this species have been grafted, 
is honored during the frnit season by a guard of sepoys ; and 
ta the reign of Shah Jehrin, couriers were stationed between 
Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant anB fresh 
supply of mangoes for the royal table." Mr. CroAaKj'* 
Journal of a Residence in India. 

1 This old porcelain is found in digging, and " if it is s- 
teemed, It is not because it has acquired any new degree nf 
beauty in the earth, but because it has retained us ancient 
beauty; and thij alone is of great importance In China, when 



106 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



tercel the whole set to pieces an irreparable 
loss, as many of the vessels were so exqui- 
bitely old as to have been used under the 
Emperors Tan and Chun, who reigned many 
ages before the dynasty of Tang. His 
Koran, too, supposed to be the identical 
"opy between the leaves of which Moham- 
med's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had 
been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three 
whole days; not without much spiritual 
alarm to Fadladeen, who, though professing 
to hold, with other loyal and orthodox Mus- 
sulmans, that salvation could only be found 
in the Koran, was strongly suspected of be- 
lieving,, in his heart, that it could only be 
found in his own particular copy of it. 
When to all these grievances is added the 
obstinacy of the cooks, in putting the pepper 
of Canara into his dishes instead of the 
cinnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose 
that he came to the task of criticism with at 
le?-it a sufficient degree of irritability for 
iVe purpose. 

" In order," said he, importantly swinging 
about his chaplet of pearls, " to convey with 
clearness my opinion of the story this young 
man has related, it is necessary to take a re- 
view of all the stories that have ever 



" My good Fadladeen !" exclaimed the Prin- 
cess, interrupting him, " we really do not 
deserve that you should give yourself so 
much trouble. Your opinion of the poem 
we have just heard will, I have no doubt, be 
abundantly edifying, without any further 
waste of your valuable erudition. " " If that 
be all," replied the critic, evidently morti- 
fied at not being allowed to show how much 
he knew about everything but the subject 
immediately before him, " if that be all that 
is required, the matter is easily despatched." 
He then proceeded to analyze the poem, in 
that strain (so well known to the unfortunate 
bards of Delhi) whose censures were an in- 
fliction from which few recovered, and whose 
very praises were like the honey extracted 
from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief 



tlrey give larije fame for the smallest vessels which were used 
under the Emperors Tan and Chun, who reigned many ages 
before the dynasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to 
oe used by the Eaapevore," (about the year 44S.)~ Dunn's 
f ^ftUeeiiott ty Curious Observations. &c., a bad translation of 
<nre parts of the " Lettres Edifiautea et Curieuses" of the 
Jeauiu. 



personages of the story were, \f he right! y 
understood them, an ill-favored gentleina"., 
with a veil over his face ; a young lady, 
whose reason went and came according as it 
suited the poet's convenience to be sensible 
or otherwise ; and a youth, in one of those 
hideous Bucharian bonnets, who took the 
aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. 
" From such materials," said he, " what can 
be expected ? after rivalling each other in 
long speeches and absurdities, through some 
thousands of lines as indigestible as the fil- 
berds of Berdan, our friend in the veil jumps 
into a tub of aquafortis ; the young lady dies 
in a set speech, whose only recommendation 
is, that it is her last ; and the lover lives on 
to a good old age, for the laudable purpose 
of seeing her ghost, which he at last happily 
accomplishes and expires. This, you will 
allow, is a fair summary of the story ; and 
if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no 
better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all 
honor and glory !) had no need to be jealous 
of his abilities for story-telling." 1 

With respect to the style, it was worthy 
of the matter : it had not even those politic 
contrivances of structure which make up foi 
the commonness of the thoughts by the pe- 
culiarity of the manner, nor that stately 
poetical phraseology by which sentiments 
mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's 
apron* converted into a banner, are so easily 
gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then 
as to the versification, it was, to say no 
worse of it, execrable ; it had neither the 
copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of 
Hafiz, nor the sententious march of Sadi; 
but appeared to him, in the uneasy heaviness 
of its movements, to have been modelled 
upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. 
The licences, too, in which it indulged were 
unpardonable ; for instance, this line, and 
the poem abounded with suah 

" Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream." 



i " La lecture de ces fables plaieolt si fort aux Arabes, qne, 
quand Mohammed lea entretenolt de 1'Histoire de 1'Anciep 
Testament, ils lee mvprisoiunt, Ini disant qne celles que No- 
ser leur racontoient e'toicnt beancoup plus belles." CetU 
preference attira 4 Nasser la malediction de Hol.aramed et de 
tons ses disciples. 

* The blacksmith Gao, who successfully resisted the tyrant 
^ohak. and whose tprop became the roval standard of Prrala. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



107 



' What critic that can count," said Fadla- 
deeu, " and has his full complement of fingers 
to count withal, would tolerate for an instant 
Buch syllabic superfluities ?" He here looked 
round, and discovered that most of his audi- 
ence were asleep ; while the glimmering 
lamps seemed inclined to follow their exam- 
ple. It became necessary, therefore, how- 
ever painful to himself, to put an end to his 
valuable animadversions for the present, and 
he accordingly concluded, with an air of 
dignified candor, thus: "Notwithstanding 
the observations which I have thought it my 
duty to make, it is by no means my wish to 
discourage the young man ; so far from it, 
indeed, that if lie will but totally alter his 
style of writing and thinking, I have very 
little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased 
with him." 

Some days elapsed, after this harangue of 
the Great Chamberlain, before Lalla Rookh 
could venture to ask for another story. The 
youth was still a welcome guest in the pavil- 
ion, to one heart, perhaps, too dangerously 
welcome ; but all mention of poetry was, as 
if by common consent, avoided. Though 
none of the panyhad much respect for Fad- 
ladeen, yet his censures, thus magisterially 
delivered, evidently made an impression on 
them all. The Poet himself, to whom criti- 
cism was quite a new operation, (being 
wholly unknown in that Paradise of the 
Indies Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is 
generally felt at first, till use has made it 
more tolerable to the patient ; the ladies be- 
gan to suspect that they ought not to be 
uleased, and seemed to conclude that there 
must have been much good sense in what 
Fadladeen said, from its having set them all 
so soundly to sleep; while the self-complacent 
chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea 
of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time 
in his life, extinguished a poet. Lalla Rookh 
alone and Love knew why persisted in 
being delighted with all she had heard, and 
in resolving to hear more as speedily as pos- 
sible. Her manner, however, of first return- 
ing to the subject was unlucky. It was 
while they rested during the heat of noon 
nenr a fountain, on which some hand had 
rmlely traced those well-known words from 



the Garden of Sadi, "Many, like me, hav 
viewed this fountain, but they are gone, and 
their eyes are closed forever !" that she 
took occasion, from the melancholy beauty 
of this passage, to dwell upon the charms of 
poetry in general. "It is true," she said 
" few poets can imitate that sublime bird 
which flies always in the air, and never 
touches the earth ; it is only once in many 
ages a genius appears, whose words, like 
those on the Written Mountain, 1 last for- 
ever; but still there are some, as delightful 
perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if 
not stars over our head, are at least flowers 
along our path, and whose sweetness of the 
moment we ought gratefully to inhale, with- 
out calling upon them for a brightness and 
a durability beyond their nature. In short," 
continued she, blushing, as if conscious of 
being caught in an oration, " it is quite cruel 
that a poet cannot wander through his re- 
gions of enchantment, without having a critic 
forever, like the Old Man of the Sea, (Sinbad,) 
upon his back !" Fadladeen, it was plain, 
took this last luckless allusion to himself, 
and would treasure it up in his mind as a 
whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden 
silence ensued ; and the Princess, glancing a 
look at Feramorz, saw plainly she must wail 
for a more courageous moment. 

But the glories of Nature, and her wild, 
fragrant airs, playing freshly over the cur- 
rent of youthful spirits, will soon heal even 



' The huma. a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to 
fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground. It it 
looked upon as a bird of happy omen ; and that every head it 
overehades will in time wear a crown. Richardson, In th} 
turms of alHance made by Fnzzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 
1760, one of the stipulations was, " that he should have the 
distinction of two honorary attendants standing Dcside him, 
holding fans composed of the feathers of the huma. according 
to the practice of his family." WUks's South of India. lie 
adds in a note :" The huma is a fabulous bird. The heaci 
over which its shadow once passes will assuredly be circled 
with a crown. The splendid little bird suspended over the 
throne of Tipppo Sultann, found at Seringapatam in 1799, was 
intended to represent this poetical fancy." 

J To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we must attribute the in- 
scriptions, figures, <fcc., on those rocks, which have from 
thence acquired the name of the Written Mountain." Voltuy. 
M. Gebelin and others have been at much pains to attach some 
mysterious and important meaning to these inscriptions ; but 
Niebuhr, as we'll as Volnoy, thinks that they mnst have been 
executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Sinai, " who 
were satisfied with cutting the unpolished rock with tnj 
pointed instrument ; adding to their names, and the date ol 
their journeys, some rude figures, which bespeak the hand ol 
a people but little skilled in the arts.'' Niebuhr. 




108 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of 
this world can inflict. In an .evening or two 
fter, they came to the small Valley of Gar- 
dens, which had been planted by order of 
the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara, 
during their progress to Cashmere, some 
years before ; and never was there a more 
sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the 
Gulzar-e-Irem, or Rose-bower of Irem. 
Every precious flower was there to be found 
that poetry, or love, or religion has ever 
consecrated from the dark hyacinth, to 
which Hafi compares his mistress's hair, to 
the Cdmaldta, by whose rosy blossoms the 
heaven of Indra is scented. 1 As they sat in 
the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and 
Lalla Rookh remarked that she could fancy 
it the abode of that flower-loving nymph 
whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, 
or of one of those Peris, those beautiful 
creatures of the air, who live upon perfumes, 
and to whom a place like this might make 
some amends for the Paradise they have 
lost, the young Poet, in whose eyes she 
appeared, while she spoke, to be one of the 
bright spiritual creatures she was describing, 
said, hesitatingly, that he remembered a 
story of a Peri, which, if the princess had no 
3bjection, he would venture to relate. " It 
is," said he, with an appealing look to Fad- 
ladeen, " in a lighter and humbler strain than 
the other ;" then, striking a few careless but 
melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus 
began : 



PARADISE AND THE PERL 

ONE morn a Peri at the gate 
Of Eden stood disconsolate ; 
And as she listen'd to the springs 

Of life within, like music flowing, 
And caught the light upon her win^s 

Through the half-open portal glowing, 



" The Camalata (called by Linnaeus, Iporruea) is the most 
beautiful ofits order^ both in the color and form of its leaves 
and flowers; its elegant blossoms are 'celestial rosy red, 
love's proper hne,' and have justly procured it the name of 
Camalata. or Love's Creeper." Sir W. Jones. 

" Cimalaia may also mean a mythological plant, by which 
all desires are granted to such as Inhabit the heaven of Indra ; 
and if ever Bower was worthy of Paradise, it is onr charmine 
Ipomsea."-*. 



She wept to think her recreant race 
Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! 

"How happy," exclaim'd this child of air, 
" Are the holy spirits who wander there, 

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall ; 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and 

sea, 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 

One blossom of heaven out-blooms them all 1 

Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, 
With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,* 

And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; 
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
And the golden floods that thitherward stray,' 
Yet oh, 'tis only the blest can say 

How the waters of heaven outshine them 
all! 

Go, wing thy flight from star to star, 
From world to luminous world, as far 

As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, 
And multiply each through endless years, 

One minute of heaven is worth them all !* 

The glorious Angel, who was keeping 
The Gates of Light, beheld her weeping; 
And, as he nearer drew and listen'd 
To her sad fiong, a tear-drop glisten'd 
Within his eyelids, like the spray 

From Eden's fountain, when it lies 
On the blue flower, which Brahmins sa 

Blooms nowhere but in Paradise ! 4 
Nymph of a fair but erring line !" 
Gently he said " One hope is thine. 
'Tis written in the Book of Fate, 

The Peri yet may be forgiven 
Who brings to this eternal gate 

The gift that is most dear to Heave t 
Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin ; 
'Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in 1" 

Rapidly as comets run 

To the embraces of the sun : 






" Numerous email islands emerge from th *kc of Cih 
mere." 

" " The Allan Kol or Golden River of Tibf as abnndanc* 
of gold in its sands." Pinkertm. 

"The Brahmins of this province insist *t the blue Cam. 
pac flowers only in Paradise." Sir W. Jot i. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



109 



Fleeter than the starry brands 
Flung at night from angel-hands' 
At those dark and daring sprites, 
Who would climb the empyreal heights, 
Down the blue vault the Peri flies, 

And, lighted earthward by a glance 
That just then broke from morning's eyes, 

Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. 

But whither shall the spirit go 

To find this gift for Heaven? "I know 

The wealth," she cries, " of every urn, 

In which unnumber'd rubies burn, 

Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ; a 

I know where the Isles of Perfume are* 

Many a fathom down in the sea, 

To the south of sun-bright Araby;' 

I know, too, where the Genii hid 

The jewell'd cup of their king Jamshid,' 

With life's elixir sparkling high 

But gifts like these are not for the sky. 

Where was there ever a gem that shone 

Like the steps of Alla's wonderful throne ? 

And the drops of life oh ! what would they be 

In the boundless deep of eternity ?" 

While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd 
The air of that sweet Indian land, 
Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads 
O'er coral banks and amber beds ;" 
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam 
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem ; 
Whose rivulets are like rich brides, 
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides : 



1 "The Mohammedans suppose that falling stars are the 
firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the bad 
when they approach too near the empyreum or verge of the 
heavene." 

1 "The Forty Pillars so the Persians call the ruins of Per- 
eepolla. It is imagined by them that this palace, and the 
edifices at Baalbec, were built by Genii, for the purpose of 
hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, 
which still remain there." 

* Diodorus mentions the Isle of Panchaia, to the south of 
Arabia Felix, where there was a temple to Jupiter. This is- 
lanil, or rather cluster of isles, has disappeared "sunk (saya 
Gnindore) in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foun- 
dations." Voyage to the Indian Ocean. 

The Isles of Panchaia. 

" The cnp of Jamshid, discovered, they ay, when digging 
for the foundations of Persepolis." 

8 " Like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls 
and ambergris, whose mountains on the coast are stored with 
gold and precious stones, whose gulfs breed creatures that 
yield ivory, and among the plants of whose shores are ebony, 
red wood, and the wood of Hairzan, aloes, camphor, cloves, 
andal-wood, and all other spices and aromatics; where par- 
rots and peacocks are birds of the forest, and musk and civet 
ro collected upon the lands." Travels of two Molumunedam. 



Whose sandal-groves and bowers of spice 
Might be a Peri's Paradise! 
But crimson now her rivers ran 

With human blood the smell of death 
Came reeking from those spicy bowers. 
And man, the sacrifice of man, 

Mingled his taint with every breath 
Upwafted from the innocent flowers ! 
Land of the Sun ! what foot invades 
Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades' 
Thy cavern shrines and idol stones, 
Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones ?' 
'Tis he of Gazna' fierce in wrath 

He comes, and India's diadems 
Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path. 

His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, 
Torn from the violated necks 

Of many a young and loved Sultana;" 

Maidens within their pure Zenana, 

Priests in the very fane, he slaughters, 
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks 

Of golden shrines the sacred waters I 

Downward the Peri turns her gaze, 
And through the war-field's bloody haze. 
Beholds a youthful warrior stand, 

Alone, beside his native river, 
The red blade broken in his hand 

And the last arrow in his quivei. 
" Live," said the Conqueror, " live to share 
The trophies and the crowns I bear !" 
Silent that youthful warrior stood 
Silent he poipted to the flood 
All crimson with his country's blood, 
Then sent his last remaining dart, 
For answer, to the invader's heart. 
False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; 
The tyrant lived, the here fell ! 
Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay, 

And when the rush of war was past, 
Swiftly descending on a ray 

Of morning light, she caught the last 



' ' The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow. 
About the mother-tree, a pillar'd shade." Hilton. 

' " With this immense treasure Mamood returned to 
Ghizni, and in the year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, 
where he displayed to the people his wealth in golden throne* 
and other ornaments, in a- great plain without the city of 
Ghizni." FeriMa. 

' " Mahmond of Gazna, or Ghizni, who conquered India la 
the beginning of the eleventh century." 

"> "It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan 
Mahmoud wa so magnificent, that he kept four hundred grey- 
hounds and bloodhounds, each of which wore a col'&r set with 
jewels, and a covering edged with go'd and peane.' 



110 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Last glorious drop his heart had shed, 
Before its free-born spirit fled ! 

" Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, 
" My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 
Though foul are the drops that oft distil 

On the field of warfare, blood like this, 

For Liberty shed, so holy is, 1 
It would not stain the purest rill 

That sparkles among the bowers of bliss ! 
Oh ! if there be, on this earthly sphere, 
A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, 
Tis the last libation Liberty draws 
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in 
her cause. 

" Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave 

The gift into his radiant hand, 
" Sweet is our welcome of the brave 

Who die thus for their native land. 
But see alas ! the crystal bar 
Of Eden moves not holier far 
Than even this drop the boon must be 
That opes the gates of heaven for thee !" 

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, 

Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains,* 
Far to the south, the Peri lighted ; 

And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains 
Of that Egyptian tide, whose birth 
Is hidden from the sons of earth, 
Deep in those solitary woods, 
Where oft the Genii of the Floods 
Dance round the cradle of their Nile, 
And hail the new-born Giant's smile !' 
Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves, 
Her grots, and sepulchres of kings, 4 



1 Objections may be made to my use of the woid liberty, in 
this, and more especially in the story that follows It, as totally 
inapplicable to any state of things that has ever existed in the 
East ; bat though I cannot, of course, mean to employ it in 
that enlarged and noble sense which is BO well understood at 
the present day, and, I grieve to say, so little acted upon, yet 
it is no disparagement to the word to apply it to that national 
independence, that freedom from the interference and dicta- 
tion of foreigners, without which, indeed, no Hberty of any 
kind can exist, and for which both Hindoos and Persians 
fought against their Mussulman invaders with, in many cases, 
a bravery that deserved much better success. 

1 " The Mountains of the Moon, or the Mantes LUTUK of an- 
tiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise." 

" Sometimes called," says Jackson, " Jibbel Knmrie, or the 
White or Lunar-colored Mountains ; so a white horse is called 
by the Arabians a moon-colored horse." 

"The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the name of 
My and Alawr, or the Giant." 

4 TM< Perry's " ^ lew of the Levant," for an account of the i 



The exiled Spirit sighing roves ; 
And now han-s listening to the doves 

O ^ 

In warm Rosetta's vale' now loves 

To watch the moonlight on the wings 
Of the white pelicans that break 
The azure calm of Moeris Lake. 6 
'Twas a fair scene a land more bright 

Never did mortal eye behold ! 
Who could have thought, that saw this night 

Those valleys and their fruits of gold 
Basking in heaven's serenest light ; 
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending 

Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads, 
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending 

Warns them to their silken beds ;' 
Those virgin lilies, all the night 

Bathing their beauties in the lake, 
That they may rise more fresh and bright 

When their belove'd Sun's awake; 
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem 
The relics of a splendid dream ; 

Amid whose fairy loneliness 
Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard, 
Naught seen but (when the shadows, flitting 
Fast from the moon, unsheuth its gleurn) 
Some purple-wing'd Sultana* sitting 

Upon a column, motion 
And glittering, like an idol-bird ! 
Who could have thought, that there, 

there, 

Amid those scenes so still and fair, 
The Demon of the Plague hath cast , 
From his hot wing a deadlier blast, 
More mortal far than ever came 
From the red desert's sands 
So quick, that every living thing 
Of human shape, touch'd by his wing, 
Like plants where the simoom hath pass'd, 
At once falls back and withering; ! 

O 

The sun went down on many a brow, 
Which, full of bloom and freshness then, 

Is rankling in the pesthouse now, 
And ne'er will feel that sun again ! 






sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, ent- 
ered all over with hieroglyphics, in the mountains of Upi'cr 
Egypt. 

" The orchards of Rosetta are filled with tnrtle-dves." 

Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Mreris. 

1 "The superb date-tree, whose head languidly recline? 
like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep." 

' " That beautiful bird, which, from the state'iinees ot t* 
port, as well as the brilliancy of Its colors, t as obtained tb 
title of Sultana." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Ill 



And oh ! to see the unburied heaps 
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps 
The very vultures turn away, 
And sicken at so foul a prey ! 
Only the fierce hyaena stalks' 
Throughout the city's desolate walks 
At midnight, and his carnage plies 

Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets 
The glaring of those large blue eyes 

Amid the darkness of the streets ! 

" Poor race of men !" said the pitying spirit, 

" Dearly ye pay for your primal fall 
Some flowerets of Eden ye still inherit, 

But the trail of the serpeut ia over them 

all !" 
She wept the air grew pure and clear 

Around her, as the bright drops ran ; 
For there's a magic in each tear 

Such kindly spirits weep for man ! 

Just then, beneath some orange-trees, 
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze 
Were wantoning^together, free, 
Like age at play with infancy 
Beneath that fresh and springing bower, 

Close by the lake, she heard the moan 
Of one who, at this silent hour, 

Had thither stolen to die alone. 
One who in life, where'er he moved, 

Drew after him the hearts of many; 
Yet now, as though he ne'er were loved, 

Dies here, unseen, unwept by any ! 
None to watch near him none to slake 

The fire that in his bosom lies, 
With even a sprinkle from that lake 

Which shines so cool before his eyes. 
No voice, well known through many a day, 

To speak the last, the parting word, 
Which, when all other sounds decay, 
' ' Is still like distant music heard ; 
That tender farewell on the shore 
Of this rude world, when all is o'er, 



1 Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred In West 
Barbary when he was there, says, " The birds of the air fled 
tway from the abodes of men. The hysenas, on th contrary, 
visited the cemeteries," &c. 

" Qondar was fall of hyjcnas from the time it turned dark till 
the dawn of day, seeking the different pieces of slaughtered 
carcasses, which this cruel and unclean people expose in the 
streets without burial, and who firmly believe that these ani- 
mals are Falashta from the neighboring mountains, trans- 
formed by magic, and come down to eat human flesh in the 
tark IB safety." -Bruce. 



Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark 
Puts off" into the unknown dark. 

Deserted youth ! one thought alone 

Shed joy around his soul in death 
That she, whom he for years had known, 
And loved, and might have call'd his own, 
Was safe from this foul midnight'i 

breath ; 

Safe in her father's princely halls, 
Where the cool air from fountains falls, 
Freshly perfumed by many a brand 
Of the sweet wood from India's land, 
Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd. 

But see, who yonder comes by stealth, 

This melancholy bower to seek, 
Like a young envoy sent by Health, 

With rosy gifts upon her cheek ? 
'Tis she far off, through moonlight dim, 

He knew his own betrothdd bride, 
She who would rather die with him 

Than live to gain the world beside ! 
Her arms are round her lover now, 
His livid cheek to hers she presses, 
And dips, to bind his burning brow, 

In the cool lake, her loosen'd tresses. . 
Ah ! once, how little did he think 
An hour would come when he should shrink. 
With horror from that dear embrace, 

Those gentle arms, that were to him 
Holy as is the cradling place 

Of Eden's infant cherubim ! 
And now he yields now turns away, 
Shuddering as if the venom lay 
All in those proffer'd lips alone 
Those lips that, then so fearless grown, 
Never until that instant came 
Near his unask'd, or without shame. 
" Oh ! let me only breathe the air, 

The blessed air that's breathed by thee, 
And, whether on its wings it bear 

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me 1 
There, drink my tears, while yet they fall, 

Would that my bosom's blood were balm,. 
And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all, 

To give thy brow one minute's calm. 
Nay, turn not from me that dear face 

Am I not thine thy own loved bride 
The one, the chosen one, whose place 
In life or death is by thy side? 



112 



POEMS O*' THOMAS MOORE. 



Thinkst thou that she, whose only light 

In this dim world from thee hath shone, 
Could bear the long, the cheerless night 

That must be hers when thou art gone ? 
That I can live, and let thee go, 
Who art my life itself ? No, no 
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew 
Out of its heart must perish too ! 
Then turn to me, my own love, turn, 
Before like thee I fade and burn ; 
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share 
The last pure life that lingers there !" 
She fails she sinks as dies the lamp 
In charnel-airs or cavern-damp, 
So quickly do his baleful sighs 
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes ! 
One struggle and his pain is past 

Her lover is no longer living ! 
One kiss the maiden gives, one last, 

Long kiss, which she expires in giving ! 

" Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole 
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, 
As true as e'er warm' d a woman's breast 
" Sleep on in visions of odor rest, 
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd 
The enchanted pile of that holy bird 
Who sings at the last his own death lay, 1 
And in music and perfume dies away !" 

Thus saying, from her lips she spread 

Unearthly breathings through the place, 
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed 

Such lustre o'er each paly face, 
That like two lovely saints they seem'd 

Upon the eve of doomsday taken 
From their dim graves, in odor sleeping ; 

While that benevolent Peri beam'd 
Like their good angel, calmly keeping 

Watch o'er them till their souls would 
waken ! 

But morn is blushing in the sky ; 

Again the Peri soars above, 
Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh 

Of pure, self-sacrificing love. 



1 " In the Bast they suppose the Phoenix to have fifty orifi- 
ces it his bill, which are continued to Ms tail ; and that, after 
living one thousand years, he builds himself a funeral pile, 
ings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty 
organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which seta fire to 
Ike wood, and consumes himself." 



High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate, 

The Elysian palm she soon shall win, 
For the bright spirit at the gate 

Smiled as she gave that offering in ; 
And she already hears the trees 

Of Eden, with their crystal bells 
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze 

That from the throne of Alia swells ; 
And she can see the starry bowls 

That lie around that lucid lake. 
Upon whose banks admitted souls 

Their first sweet draught of glory take !" 

But ah ! even Peris' hopes are vain 

Again the Fates forbade, again 

The immortal barrier closed " Not yet," 

The Angel said, as, with regret, 

He shut from her that glimpse of glory 

" True was the maiden, and her story, 

Written in light o'er Alla's head, 

By seraph eyes shall long be read. 

But, Peri, see the crystal bar 

Of Eden moves not holier far 

Than even this sigh the boon must be 

That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee." 

Now, upon Syria's land of roses' 
Softly the light of Eve reposes, 
And, like a glory, the broad sun 
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; 
Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, 

And whitens with eternal sleet, 
While summer, in a Vale of flowers, 

Is sleeping rosy at his fret. 

To one who look'd from upper air 
O'er all the enchanted regions there, 
How beauteous must have been the giow, 
The life, the sparkling from below ! 
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks 
Of golden melons on their banks, 
More golden where the sun-light falls j 
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls' 
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright 



1 On the shores of a quadrangular lake etand a thousand 
goblets, made of stare, out of which souls predestined to enjoy 
felicity drink the crystal wave. From Chateaubriand's " Mo- 
hammedan Paradise," in his Beauties of Christianity. 

* Richardson thinks that Syria had its name from Suri, a 
beautiful and delicate species of rose for which that country 
has been always famous ; hence, Suristan, the Land of Hosec 

< "The number of lizards I saw one (lay in the great coun 
of the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec amounted \x many tboo 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



113 



As they were all alive with light ; 

And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 

Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, 

With their rich restless wings, that gleam 

Variously in the crimson beam 

Of the warm west, as if inlaid 

With brilliants from the mine, or made 

Of tearless rainbows, such as span 

The unclouded skies of Peristan ! 

And then, the mingling sounds that come, 

Of shepherd's ancient reed, 1 with hum 

Of the wild bees of Palestine, 

Banqueting through the flowery vales ; 
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, 

And woods, so full of nightingales !* 

But naught can charm the luckless Peri ; 
Her soul is sad her wings are weary 
Joyless she sees the sun look down 
On that great temple, once his own, 1 
Whose lonely columns stand sublime, 

Flinging their shadows from on high, 
Like dials, which the wizard, Time, 

Had raised to count his ages by ! 

Yet haply there may lie eonceal'd 
Beneath those chambers of the Sun, 

Some amulet of gems, anneal'd 

In upper fires, some tablet seal'd 
With the great name of Solomon, 
Which, spell'd by her illumined eyes, 

May teach her where, beneath the moon, 

[n earth or ocean lies the boon, 

The charm, that can restore so soon 
An erring spirit to the skies. 

Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither ; 
Still laughs the radiant eye of heaven, 
Nor have the golden bowers of even 

In the rich west begun to wither ; 

When, o'er the vale of Baalbec winging 
Slowly, she sees a child at play, 

Among the rosy wild-flowers singing, 
As r9sy and as wild as they ; 

Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, 



The beautiful blue damsel-flies,' 
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems, 
Like winged flowers or flying gems : 
And, near the boy, who tired with play, 
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay, 
She saw a wearied man dismount 

From his hot steed, and on the brink 
Of a small imaret's rustic fount* 

Impatient fling him down to drink. 
Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd 

To the fair child, who fearless sat, 
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd 

Upon a brow more fierce than that, 
Sullenly fierce a mixture dire, 
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire 1 
In which the Peri's eye could read 
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; 
The ruin'd maid the shrine profaned 
Oaths broken and the threshold stain'd 
With blood of guests ! there written, all, 
Black as the damning drops that fall 
From the denouncing Angel's pen, 
Ere Mercy weeps them out again ! 

Yet tranquil now that man of crime 
(As if the balmy evening-time 
Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay, 
Watching the rosy infant's play : 
Though still, whene'er his eye by chancr 
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance 

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze 
As torches, that have burn'd all night 

' O 

Through some impure and godless rite, 
Encounter morning's glorious rayt 

But hark! the vesper-call to prayer, 

As slow the orb of daylight sets, 
Is rising sweetly on the air, 

From Syria's thousand minarets ! 
The boy has started from the bed' 
Of flowers, where he had laid his head, 
And down upon the fragrant sod 



lands ; the ground, the walls, and stones of the rained bnild- 
uiH were covered with them." Bruce. 

1 "The syrinx, or Pan's pipe, ia still a paatoral instrument 
la Syria " 

* " The river Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, 
and pleasant woods, among which thousands of nightingales 
warble all together." Thevenot. 

* The Temple of the Sun at Baalbec. 



4 " You behold there a considerable number of a remark *>l* 
species of beautiful insects, the elegance o. wnose appmr 
ance, and their attire, procured for them the name of Bam 
sels." 

Imaret " hospice oil on loge et nourrit, gratis, les pe'lerini 
pendant trois jours." Toderlni. 

" Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the 
road, or so employed as not to find convenience to attend tht 
mosques, are still obliged to execute that duty : nor are they 
ever known to fall, whatever business they are then about 
but pray immediately when the hour alarms them, In tha 1 
very place they chance to stand on." Aaron Hill's Trvlt 



1'OEMS OF THOMAS MOO1IE. 



Kneels, with his forehead to the south, 
Lisping the eternal name of God 

From purity's own cherub mouth, 
And looking, while his hands and eyes 
Are lifted to the glowing skies, 
Like a stray babe of Paradise, 
Just lighted on that flowery plain, 
And seeking for its home again ! 

Oh 'twas a sight that heaven that child 
A scene which might have well beguiled 
Even haughty Eblis of a sigh 
For glories lost and peace gone by ! 

And how felt he, the wretched man 
Reclining there while memory ran 
O'er many a year of guilt and strife, 
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, 
Nor found one sunny resting-place, 
Nor brought him back one branch of grace ! 
" There was a time," he said, in mild, 
Heart-humbled tones, " thou blessed child ! 
When young, and haply pure as thou, 

I look'd and pray'd like thee ; but now " 
He hung his head each nobler aim 

And hope and feeling, which had slept 
From boyhood's hour, that instant came 

Fresh o'er him, and he wept he wept ! 

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! 

In whose benign, redeeming flow 
Is felt the first, the only sense 

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. 
" There's a drop," said the Peri, " that down 

from the moon 

Falls through the withering airs of June 
Upon Egypt's land, 1 of so healing a power, 
So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour 
That drop descends, contagion dies, 
And health reanimates earth and skies ! 
Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, 

The precious tears of repentance fall ? 
Though foul thy fiery plagues within, 

One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them 

all !" 

And now behold him kneeling there 
By the child's side, in humble prayer, 
While the same sunbeam shines upon 



1 The Nncta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt pre- 
cisely ou St. John's Day, in June, and ia supposed to have the 
tffect of slipping the plague. 



The guilty and the guiltless one, 

And hymns of joy proclaim through heaves 

The triumph of a soul forgiven ! 

'Twas when the golden orb had set, 
While on their knees they linger'd yet, 
There fell a light, more lovely tar 
Than ever came from sun or star, 
Upon the tear that, warm and meek, 
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek : 
To mortal eye this light might seem 
A northern flash or meteor beam 
Bat well the enraptured Peri knew 
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw 
From heaven's gate, to hail that tear 
Her harbinger of glory near ! 

"Joy, joy forever! my task is done 
The Gates are pass'd, and heaven is won ! 
Oh ! am I not happy ? I am, I am 

To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and saJ 
Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,' 

And the fragrant bowers of-Amberabad ! 

" Farewell, ye odors of earth, that die, 
Passing away like a lover's sigh ; 
My feast is now of the Tooba tree,' 
Whose scent is the breath of Eternity ! 

" Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone 
In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief, 

Oh, what are the brightest that e'er have 
blown, 

To the lote-tree spring by Alla's throne, 4 
Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf! 

Joy, joy forever ! my task is done 

The gates are pass'd, and heaven is won !" 



" And this," said the Great Chamberlain, 
" is poetry ! this flimsy manufacture of the 
brain, which, in comparison with the lofty 
and durable monuments of genius, is as the 



The Country of Delight the name of a province in the 
kingdom of Jinnistan or Fairy Land, the capital of which ii 
called " The City of Jewels." Amberabad is another of the 
cities of Jinnistan. 

"The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of 
Mohammed." Touba signifies eternal happiness. 

4 Mohammed is described, in the fifty-third chapter of the 
Koran, as having seen the angel Gabriel " by the lote-treu, 
OeyonJ which there is no passing : near it is the Garden of 
Eternal Abode." This tree, say the commentators, stands ii 
the seventh heaven, OD Ihe right hand of the throne of God. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



115 



gold filigree-work of Zamara beside the eter- 
nal architecture of Egypt !" After this 
gorgeous sentence, which, with a few more 
of the same kind, Fadladeen kept by him for 
rare and important occasions, he proceeded 
to the anatomy of the short poem just re- 
cited. The lax and easy kind of metre in 
which it was written ought to be denounced, 
he said, as one of the leading causes of the 
alarming growth of poetry in our times. If 
some check were not given to this lawless 
facility, we should soon be overrun by a race 
of bards as numerous and as shallow as the 
hundred and twenty thousand streams of 
Basra. 1 They who succeeded in this style 
deserved chastisement for their very success ; 
as warriors have been punished, even after 
gaining a victory, because they had taken 
the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or 
unestablished manner. What, then, was to 
be said to those who failed ? to those who 
presumed, as in the present lamentable in- 
stance, to imitate the licence and ease of the 
bolder sons of song, without any of that 
grace or vigor which gave a dignity even to 
negligence ; who, like them, flung the 
jereed' carelessly, but not like them, to the 
mark ; " and who," said he, raising his voice 
to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in 
his hearers, " contrive to appear heavy and 
constrained in the midst of all the latitude 
they have allowed themselves, like one of 
those young pagans that dance before the 
Princess, who has the ingenuity to move as if 
her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the light- 
est and loosest drawers of Masulipatam !" 

It was but little suitable,' he continued, to 
the grave march of criticism to follow this 
fantastical Peri, of whom they had just 
heard, through all her flights and adventures 
between earth and heaven, but he could not 
help adverting to the puerile conceitedness 
of the Three Gifts which she is supposed to 
carry to the skies, a drop of blood, forsooth, 
a sigh, and a tear ! How the first of these 
articles was delivered into the Angel's " radi- 
ant hand" he professed himself at a loss to 

1 " It Is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reck- 
oned in the time of Belal Ben Abi Bordeh, and amounted to 
too number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams." 

* "The name ol the javelin with which the Easterns eier- 



I 



discover; and as to the safe carriage of tho 
sigh and tear, such Peris and such poels 
were beings by far too incomprehensible, for 
him even to guess how they managed such 
matters. " But, in short," said he, " it is a 
waste of time and patience to dwell longer 
upon a thing so incurably frivolous, puny 
even among its own puny race, and such as 
only the Banian Hospital' for Sick Insects 
should undertake." 

In vain did Lalla Rookh try to soften 
this inexorable critic ; in vain did she resort 
to her most eloquent commonplaces, re- 
minding him that poets were a timid and 
sensitive race, whose sweetness was not to 
be drawn forth,' like that of the fragrant 
grass near the Ganges, by crushing and 
trampling upon them ; that severity often 
destroyed every chance of the perfection 
which it demanded ; and that, after all, per- 
fection was like the Mountain of the Talis- 
man, no one had ever yet reached its 
summit.' Neither these gentle axioms, nor 
the still gentler looks with which they were 
inculcated, could lower for one instant the 
elevation of Fadladeen's eyebrows, or charm 
him into anything like encouragement or even 
toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, 
was not among the weaknesses of Fadladeen ; 
he carried the same spirit into matters of 
poetry and of religion, and, though little 
versed in the beauties or sublimities of either, 
was a perfect master of the art of persecution 
in both. His zeal, too, was the same in 
either pursuit ; whether the game before him 
was pagans or poetasters, worshippers of 
cows, or writers of epics. 



"This account excited a desire of visiting the Banian 
Hospital, as I had heard much of their benevolence to all kinds 
of animals that were cither sick, lame, or infirm, through age 
or accident. On my arrival there were presented to my view 
many horses, cows, and oxen, in one apartment ; in another, 
dogs, sheep, goats, and monkeys, with clean straw for them to 
repose on. Above-stairs were depositories for seeds of many 
sorts, and flat, broad dishes for water, for the use of birds and 
insects." Parsons. 

It is said that all animals know the Banians, that the mosi 
timid approach them, and that birds will fly nearer to them 
than to other people. Vide Grandpre. 

1 " A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Ganges, near 
Heridwar, which in some places covers whole acres, and c'.if 
rases when crushed a strong odor." Sir W. Janet on Uu 
Spikenard of the Ancients. 

" Near this is a curious hill, called Koh Talism, the Moun- 
tain of the Talisman,' because, according to the traditions of 
the country, no person ever succeeded in gaining its summit." 



116 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



They had now arrived at the splendid city 
of Lahore, whose mausoleums and shrines, 
magnificent and numberless, where death 
seemed to share equal honors with Heaven, 
would have powerfully affected the heart and 
imagination of Lalla Rookh, if feelings more 
of this earth had not taken entire possession 
of her already. She was here met by mes- 
sengers, despatched from Cashmere, who in- 
formed her that the King had arrived in the 
valley, and was himself superintending the 
sumptuous preparations that were making in 
the saloons of the Shalimar for her reception. 
The chill she felt on receiving this intelli- 
gence, which to a bride whose heart was 
free and light would have brought only 
images of affection and pleasure, convinced 
her that her peace was gone forever, and 
that she was in love irretrievably in love 
with young Feramorz. The veil, which this 
passion wears at first, had fallen off, and to 
know that she loved was now as painful as to 
love without knowing it had been delicious. 
Feramorz too what misery would be his, if 
the sweet hours of intercourse so imprudently 
allowed them should have stolen into his 
heart the same fatal fascination as into hers; 
if, notwithstanding her rank, and the modest 
homage he always paid to it, even he should 
have yielded to the KrJ'ience of those long 
and happy interviews, where music, poetry, 
the delightful scenes of nature all tended 
to bring their hearts close together, and to 
waken, by every means, that too ready pas- 
sion, which often, like the young of the 
desert-bird, is warmed into life by the eyes 
alone !' She saw but one way to preserve 
herself from being culpable as well as un- 
happy, and this, however painful, she was 
resolved to adopt. Feramorz must no more 
be admitted to her presence. To have 
Strayed so far into the dangerous labyrinth 
was wrong, but to linger in it, while the clue 
was yet in her hand, would be criminal 
Though the heart she had to offer to the 
King of Bucharia might be cold and broken. 
it should at least be pure ; and she must only 
try to forget the short vision of happiness she 
had enjoyed, like that Arabian shepherd, 

' "The Arabisns believe that the ostriches hatch their 
fouuir by only looking at them." 



who, in wanderihg into the wilderness, 
caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim 
and then lost them again forever !' 

The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore 
was celebrated in the most enthusiastic man- 
ner. The Rajas and Omras in her train, 
who had kept at a certain distance during 
the journey, had never encamped nearer to 
the Princess than was strictly necessary for 
her safeguard, here rode in splendid caval- 
cade through the city, and distributed the 
most costly presents to the crowd. Engines 
were erected in all the squares, which cast 
forth showers of confectionery among th^ 
people ; while the artisans, in chariots 
adorned with tinsel and flying streamers, ex- 
hibited the badges of their respective trades 
through the streets. Such brilliant disolays 
of life and pageantry among the palaces, and 
domes, and gilded minarets of Lahore, made 
the city altogether like a place of enchant- 
ment particularly on the day when Lalla 
Rookh set out again upon her journey, when 
she was accompanied to the gate by all the 
fairest and richest of the nobility, and rode 
along between ranks of beautiful boys and 
girls, who waved plates of gold and silver 
flowers over their heads' as they went, and 
then threw them to be gathered by the 
populace. 

For many days after their departure from 
Lahore, a considerable degree of gloom hung 
over the whole party. Lalla Rookh, who 
had intended to make illness her excuse for 
not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, 
to the pavilion, soon found that to feign in- 
disposition was unnecessary. Fadladeen felt 
the loss of the good road they had hitherto 
travelled, and was very near cursing Jehan- 
Guire (of blessed memory !) for not having 
continued his delectable alley of trees,' at 



' Vide Sale's Koran, note, vol. 11., p. 484. 

1 FeriBhta. 

"Or rather," says Scott, upon the passage of Ferishta. 
from which this is taken, " small coin, stamped with the figure 
of a flower. They are still used in India to distribute in ch'- 
ity, and, on occasion, thrown by the pursebearers of the great 
among the populace." 

* The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guirc from 
Agra to Lahore, planted with trees on each side. 

This road is 250 leagues in length. It has " little pyramid! 
or turrets," says Bernier, " erected every half league, to mark 
the ways, and frequent wells to afford drink to passengers, nd 
to water the younp trees " 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



117 



least as far as the mountains of Cashmere ; 
while the ladies., who had nothing now to do 
all day but to be fanned by peacocks' feath- 
ers and listen to Fadladeen, seemed heartily 
weary of t^ie life they led, and, in spite of all 
the Great Chamberlain's criticisms, were 
tasteless enough to wish for the poet again. 
One evening, as they were proceeding to 
their place of rest for the night, the Princess, 
who, for the freer enjoyment of the air., had 
mounted her favorite Arabian palfrey, in 
passing by a small grove heard the notes of 
a lute from within its leaves, and a voice, 
which she but too well knew, singing the 
following words : 

" Tell me not of joys above, 

If that world can give no bliss, 
Truer, happier than the love 
Which enslaves our souls in this ! 

" Tell me not of Houris' eyes ; 

Far from me their dangerous glow, 
If those looks that light the skies 
Wound like some that burn below 1 

" Who that feels what love is here, 
All its falsehood all its pain 
Would, for even Elysium's sphere, 
Risk the fatal dream again ? 

* Who that midst a desert's heat 

Sues the waters fade away, 
Would not rather die than meet 
Streams again as false as they ?" 

The tone of melancholy defiance in which 
these words were uttered, went to Lalla 
Rookh's heart ; and, as she reluctantly rode 
on, she could not help feeling it as a sad but 
sweet certainty, that Feramorz was to the 
full as enamored and miserable as herself. 

The place where they encamped that even- 
ing was the first delightful spot they had 
come to since they left Lahore. On one side 
of them was a grove full of small Hindoo 
temples, and planted with the most graceful 
trees of the East ; where the tamarind, the 
cassia, and the silken plantains of Ceylon 
were mingled in rich contrast with the high 
fan-like foliage of the Palmyra, that favor- 
ite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up 
the chambers of its nest with fire-flies.' In 

1 " The haya. or Indian gross-beak." 



the middle of the lawn where the pavilion 
stood, there was a tank surrounded by small 
mango-trees, on the clear cold waters of 
which floated multitudes of the beautiful red 
lotus ;* while at a distance stood the ruina 
of a strange and awful-looking tower, which 
seemed old enough to have been the temple 
of some religion no longer known, and which 
spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of 
ail that bloom and loveliness. This singular 
ruin excited the wonder and conjectures of 
all. Lalla Rookh guessed in vain, and the 
all-pretending Fadladeen, who had never till 
this journey been beyond the precincts of 
Delhi, was proceeding most learnedly to 
show that he knew nothing whatever about 
the matter, when one of the ladies suggested 
that perhaps Feramorz could satisfy their 
curiosity. They were now approaching his 
native mountains, and this tower might be a 
relic of some of those dark superstitions 
which had prevailed in that country before 
the light of Islam had dawned upon it. The 
Chamberlain, who usually preferred his own 
ignorance to the best knowledge that any 
one else could give him, was by no means 
pleased with this officious reference ; and the 
Princess, too, was about to interpose a faint 
word of objection, but, before either of them 
could speak, a slave was despatched for Fer- 
amorz, who, in a very few minutes, appeared 
before them, looking so pale and unhappy 
in Lalla Rookh's eyes, that she already re- 
pented of her cruelty in having so long ex- 
cluded him. 

That venerable tower, he told them, was 
the remains of an ancient Fire-Temple, built 
by those Ghebers or Persians of the old re- 
ligion, who, many hundred years since, had 
fled hither from their Arab conquerors,' pre- 
ferring liberty and their altars in a foreign 
land to the alternative of apostasy or perse- 
cution in their own. It was impossible, he 
added, not to feel interested in the many 



* " Here is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water of hich 
float multitudes of the beautifnl red lotas ; the flower is larger 
than that of the white water-lily, and ithe most lovely of the 
uymphfeas I have seen." Mrs. Graham' 'i Journal of a Rai- 
dence in India. 

' " On les voit, perse'cnte's par les Ehaltfes, se retirer dan 
les raontagnes du Kerman : plusienrs chomrent ponr retra.t* 
la Tartarie et la Chine ; d'autres s'are'te'rent sur les horde da 
Gange, a Test de Delhi." M. Anyuetil, Memoires dt F Aaut- 
mie, torn, xxxi., p. 346. 



118 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



glorious but unsuccessful struggles wind) 
had been bade by these original natives of 
Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted 
conquerors. Like their own fire in the Burn- 
ing Field at Bakou, when suppressed in one 
place, they had but broken out with fresh 
flame in another; and, as a native of Cask- 
mere, of that fair and holy valley, which had 
in the same manner become the prey of 
strangers, 1 and seen her ancient shrines and 
native princes swept away before the march 
of her intolerant invaders, he felt a sympathy, 
he owned, with the sufferings of the perse- 
cuted Ghebers, which every monument like 
this before them but tended more powerfully 
to awaken. 

It was the first time that Feramorz had 
ever ventured upon so much prose before 
Fndladeen, and it may easily be conceived 
what effect such prose as this must have 
produced upon that most orthodox and most 
pa^an-hating personage. He sat for some 
minutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals, 
" Bigoted conquerors ! sympathy with P^ire- 
Worshippers !" " while Feramorz, happy to 
take advantage of this almost speechless hor- 
ror of the chamberlain, proceeded to say that 
he knew a melancholy story, connected with 
the events of one of those brave struggles of 
the Fire- Worshippers of Persia against their 
Arab masters, which, if the evening was not 
too far advanced, he should have much 
pleasure in being allowed to relate to the 
Princess. It was impossible for Lalla Rookh 
to refuse ; he had never before looked half 
so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy 
Valley his eyes had sparkled, she thought, 
like the talismanic characters on the scimitar 
of Solomon. Her consent was therefore 
most readily granted, and while Fadladeen 
at in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason 
and abomination in every line, the poet thus 
began his story of the Fire- Worshippers : 



1 "Cashmere," says It* historians, "had its own princes 
4000 years before its conquest by Akbar in 1585. Akbar would 
have found some diffic-ilty to reduce this paradise of the In- 
dies, situated as it is within such a fortress of mountains, but 
Ite monarch, Yusef Khax., was basely betrayed by his Omra'hs " 
Pennant. 

Voltaire tells ns that in his tragedy Lea Guebres, he was 
generally supposed to have alluded to the Jansenists ! and 1 1 
homd not be surprised if this story of the Fire-Worshippei's I 
Were found capable uf a similar doubleness of application. I 



THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

'Tis moonlight over Oman's sea ;' 

Her banks of pearl and palmy isles 
Bask in the night-beam beauteously, 

And her blue waters sleep in smiles. 4 
'Tis moonlight in HarmoziaV walls, 
And through her Emir's porphyry halls, 
Where, some hours since, was heard th 

swell 

Of trumpet and the clash of zel,' 
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell; 
The peaceful sun, whom better suits 

The music of the bulbul's nest, 
Or the light touch of lovers' lutes, 

To sing him to his golden rest ! 
All hush'd there's not a breeze in motion ; 
The shore is silent as the .ocean. 
If zephyrs come, so light they come, 

Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven; 
The wind-tower on the Emir's dome* 

Can hardly win a breath from heaven. 

Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps 
Calm, while a nation round him weeps; 
While curses load the air he breathes, 
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths 
Are starting to avenge the shame 
His race hath brought on Iran's' name. 
Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alike 
'Mid eyes that weep and swords that strike ; 
One of that saintly, murderous brood, 

To carnage and the Koran given, 
Who think through unbelievers' blood 

Lies their directest path to heaven. 
One who will pause and kneel unshod 

In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd, 
To mutter o'er some text of God 

Engraven on his reeking sword ;" 
Nay, who can coolly point, the line, 
The letter of those words divine, 
To which his blade, with searching art, 
Had sunk into its victim's heart ! 



The Persian Gulf. 

Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Uo'f. 

A Moorish Instrument of music. 

" At Gombaroon, and other places in Persia, they hv 
towers for the onrpose of catching the wind, and cooling the 
uses." 

" Iran is the true general name ft>r the empire of Pen . ' 

"On the blades of their scimitars tome vena from th 
Koran is usually inscribed." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



119 



Just Alia ! what must be Thy look, 

When such a wretch before Thee stands 
Unblushing, with Thy sacred book, 

Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd 

hands, 

And wresting from its page sublime 
His creed of lust and hate and crime ? 
Even as those bees of Trebizond, 

Which from the sunniest flowers that 

glad 
With their pure smile the gardens round, 

Draw venom forth that drives men mad !' 

Never did fierce Arabia send 

A satrap forth more direly great ; 
Never was Iran doom'd to bend 

Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. 
Her throne had fallenher pride was crush'd 
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd 
In their own land, no more their own, 
To crouch beneath a Granger's throne. 
Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd, 
To Moslem shrines oh shame ! were turn'd, 
Where slaves, converted by the sword, 
Their mean, apostate worship ponr'd, 
And cursed the faith their sires adored. 
Yet has she hearts, 'mid all this' ill, 
O'er all this wreck, high, buoyant still 
With hope and vengeance ; hearts that yet, 

Like gems, in darkness issuing rays 
They've treasured from the sun that's set, 

Beam all the light of long-lost days ! 
And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow 

To second all such hearts can dare ; 
As he shall know, well, dearly know, 

Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, 
Tranquil as if his spirit lay 
Becalm'd in heaven's approving ray ! 
Sleep on for purer eyes than thine 
Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine. 
Sleep on, and be thy rest unmoved 

By the white moonlight's dazzling power: 
None but the loving and the loved 

Should be awake at this sweet hour. 

And Bee where, high above those rocks 
That o'er the deep their shadows fling, 
Yon turret stands ; where ebon locks, 



"There is a kind of Rhododendron about Trebizond, 
wnose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives 
- mad." 



As glossy as a heron's wing 

Upon the turban of a king,' 
Hang from the lattice long and wild, 
'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child, 
All truth and tenderness and grace, 
Though born of such ungentle race;-- 
An image of youth's fairy fountain 
Springing in a desolate mountain !' 

Oh, what a pure and sacred thing 

Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight 
Of the gross world, illumining 

One only mansion with her light ! 
Unseen by man's disturbing eye, 

The flower that blooms beneath the sea 
Too deep for sunbeams doth not lie 

Hid in more chaste obscurity ! 
So, Hinda, have thy face and mind, 
Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined. 
And oh, what transport for a lover 

To lift the veil that shades them o'er ' 
Like those who all at once discover 

In the lone deep s.ome fairy shore, 

Where mortal never trod before, 
And sleep and wake in scented airs 
No lip had ever breathed but theirs ! 

Beautiful are the maids that glide 

On summer-eves through Yemen's* dales. 
And bright the glancing looks they hide 

Behind their litters' roseate veils ; 
And brides, as delicate and fair 
As the white jasmine flowers they wear, 
Hath Yemen in her blissful clime, 

Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower,* 
Before their mirrors count the time,' 

And grow still lovelier every hour. 



"Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers upoo 
the right Bide, as a badge of sovereignty." 

' " The Fountain of Youth, by a Mohammedan tradition, i 
situated in some dark region of the East." 

Arabia Felix. 

" In the midst of the garden is the chioek, that in, a large 
room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst 
of it. It IB raised nine or ten steps, and enclosed with gildec 
lattices, round which vines, jessamines, and honeysuckle! 
make a sort of green wall ; large trees are planted round this 
place, which is the scene of their greatest pleasures." Lady 
M. W. Montaffu. 

' The women of the East are never without their looking- 
glasses. " In Barbary." bays Shaw, " they are so fond of thei i 
lookiug-glaescs, which they hang upon their breasts, that the; 
win not lay them aside, even when, after the drudgery of the 
day, they are obliged to go two or three miles with a pitcher 
or a goat's skin to fetch water." Travels, 

In other parts of Asia they wear little looking glasses i 






120 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But never yet hath bride or maid 
In Araby's gay Hararas smiled, 

iVhose boasted brightness would not fade 
Before Al Hassan's blooming child. 

Light as the angel shapes that bless 
An infant's dream, yet not the less 
Rich in all woman's loveliness ; 
With eyes so pure, that from their ray 
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away, 
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze 
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze!' 
Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires, 
Mingling the meek and vestal fires 
Of other worlds with all the bliss, 
The fond, weak tenderness of this ! 
The soul, too, more than half divine, 

Where, through some shades of earthly 

feeling, 
Religion's soften'd glories shine, 

Like light through summer foliage stealing, 
Shedding a glow of such mild hue, 
So warm, and yet so shadowy too, 
As makes the very darkness there 
More beautiful than light elsewhere ! 

Such is the maid who, at this hour, 

Hath risen from her restless sleep, 
And sits alone in that high bower, 

Watching the still and moonlight deep. 
Ah ! 'twas not thus, with tearful eyes 

And beating heart, she used to gaze 
On the magnificent earth and sties, 

In her own land, in happier days. 
Why looks she now so anxious down 
Among those rocks, whose rugged frown 

Blackens the mirror of the deep ? 
Whom waits she all this lonely night ? 

Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep 
For man to scale that turret's height ! 

So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire, 
When high, to catch the cool night-air 



their thumbs. "Hence ;and from the lotus being considered 
the emblem of beauty) In the meaning of the following mnte 
Intercourse of two lovers before their parents : 

"He, with salute of deference due, 

A lotns to his forehead prest ; 
She raised her mirror to his view, 
Then turned It inward to her breast." 

Asiatic Miscellany, vol. ii. 

1 " They say that If a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the 
litre of emeralds he immediatelv become! blind." 



After the day-beam's withering fire, 1 

He built her bower of freshness there, 
And had it deck'd with costliest skill, 

And fondly thought it safe as fair. 
Think, reverend dreamer ! think so still, 

Nor wake to Iqarn what love can dare 
Love, all-defying Love, who sees 
No charm in trophies won with ease ; 
Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss 
Are pluck'd on danger's precipice ! 
Bolder than they who dare not dive 

For pearls but when the sea's at n-st, 
Love, in the tempest most alive, 

Hath ever held that pearl the best 
He finds beneath the stormiest water ! 
Yes, Araby's unrivall'd daughter, 
Though high that tower, that rock-way rude, 

There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek, 
Would climb the untrodden solitude 

Of Ararat's tremendous peak, 
And think its steeps, though dark and dread, 
Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led ! 
Even now thou seest the flashing spray, 
That lights his oar's impatient way ; 
Even now thou hearst the sudden shock 
Of his swift bark against the rock, 
And stretchest down thy arms of snow, 
As if to lift him from below ! 
Like her to whom, at dead of night, 
The bridegroom, with his locks of light, 
Came, in the flush of love and pride, 
And scaled the terrace of his bride ; 
When as she saw him rashly spring, 
And mid-way up in danger cling, 
She flung him down her long black hair, 
Exclaiming, breathless, " There, love, there t' 
And scarce did manlier nerve uphold 

The hero Zal in that fond hour, 
Than wings the youth who fleet and bold 

Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower. 
See light as up their granite steeps 

The rock-goats of Arabia clamber,' 
Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, 

And now is at the maiden's chamber. 

She loves but knows not whom she loves, 
Nor what his race, nor whence he came ; 



" At Gombaroon and the Isle of OrmnB, it is sometime, 
hot that the people are obliged to lie all day in the water." 
llano Polo. 

* " On the lofty hill of Arabia Petnea are rock-goaS*."- 
JfiebuAr. 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



121 



Like one who meets, in Indian groves, 

Some beauteous bird without a name, 
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, 
From isles in the undiscover'd se;is, 
To show his plumage for a day 
To wondering eyes, and wing away ! 
Will he thus fly her nameless lover? 

Alia forbid ! 'twas by a moon 
As fair as this, while singing over 

Some ditty to her soft kanoon, 1 
Alone, at this same witching hour 

She first beheld his radiant eyes 
Gleam through the lattice of the bower, 

Where nightly now they mix their sighs ; 
And thought some spirit of the air 
(For what could waft a mortal there ?) 
Was pausing on his moonlight way 
To listen to her lonely lay ! 
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind ; 

And though, when terror's swoon had 

pass'd, 
She saw a youth of mortal kind 

Before her in obeisance cast, 
Yet often since, when he has spoken 

Strange, awful words, and gleams have 

broken 
From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, 

Oh ! she hath fear'd her soul was given 
To some unhallow'd child of air, 

Some erring spirit, cast from heaven, 
Like those angelic youths of old, 
Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould, 
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies, 
And lost their heaven for woman's eyes ! 
Fond girl ! nor fiend nor angel he, 
Who woos thy young simplicity ; 
But one of earth's impassion'd sons, 

As warm in love, as fierce in ire 
As the best heart whose curreut runs 

Full of the Day-God's living tire ! 

But quench'd to-night that ardor seems, 
And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow ; 

Never before, but in her dreams, 
Had she beheld him pale as now : 

And those were dreams of troubled sleep, 

From which 'twas joy to wake and weep ; 

Visions that will not be forgot, 



1 "Can an, especc de psalterion, avec des cordes de boyaux, 
tee dames en touchent dane le Derail, avec des dcaillea anneet* 
te pointes de coco." Toderinl, translated by /> Coiimaud. 



But sadden every waking scene, 
Like warning ghosts that leave the spot 
All wither'd where they once have been I 

" How sweetly," said the trembling maid, 
Of her own gentle voice afraid, 
So long had they in silence stood, 
Looking upon that moonlight flood 
" How sweetly does the moonbeam smile 
To-night upon yon leafy isle ! 
Oft, in my fancy's wanderings, 
I've wish'd that little isle had wings, 
And we, within its fairy bowers, 

Were wafted off to seas unknown, 
Where not a pulse should beat but ours,. 

And we might live, love, die alone. 
Far from the cruel and the cold, 

Where the bright eyes of angels only 
Should come around us, to behold 

A Paradise so pure and lonely ! 
Would this be world enough for thee ?" 
Playful she turn'd, that he might see 

The passing smile her cheek put on ; 
But when she mark'd how mournfully 

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ,. 
And, bursting into heartfelt tears, 
" Yes, yes," she cried, " my hourly fears, 
My dreams have boded all too right 
We part forever part to-night ! 
I knew, I knew it could not last 
'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past J 
Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour, 

I've seen my fondest hopes decay ; 
I never loved a tree or flower, 

But 'twas the first to fade away. 
I never nursed a dear gazelle, 

To glad me with its soft black eye, 
But when it came to know me well, 

And love me, it was sure to die ! 
Now too the joy most like divine 

Of all I ever dreamt or knew, 
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine 

O misery ! must I lose that too ? 
Yet go on peril's brink we meet ; 

Those frightful rocks that treacheron 

sea 
No, never come again though sweet, 

Though heaven, it may be death to thee 
Farewell and blessings on thy way, 

Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger I 
Better to sit and watch that ray, 



122 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And think thee safe, though far away, 
Than have thee near me, and in danger I" 

'Danger! oh, tempt me not to boast," 
The youth exclaim'd " thou little knowst 
What he can brave, who, born and nurst 
In danger's paths, has dared her worst! 
Upon whose ear the signal-word 

Of strife and death is hourly breaking; 
Who sleeps with head upon the sword 

His fever'd hand must grasp in waking ! 
Danger ! " 

" Say on thou fearst not, then 
And we may meet oft meet again ?" 

" Oh ! look not so, beneath th'e skies 

I now fear nothing but those eyes. 

If aught on earth could charm or force 

My spirit from its destined course, 

If aught could make this soul forget 

The bond to which its seal is set, 

'Twould be those eyes; they, only they, 

Could melt that sacred seal away! 

Bu* no 'tis fix'd my awful doom 

Is fix'd on this side of the tomb 

We meet no more why, why did Heaven 

Mingle two souls that earth has riven, 

Has rent asunder wide as ours ? 

Oh, Arab maid ! as soon the powers 

Of light and darkness may combine, 

As I be link'd with thee or thine ! 

Thy father " 



" Holy Alia save 

His gray head from that lightning glance ! 
Thou knowst him not he loves the brave : 

Nor lives there under heaven's expanse 
One who would prize, would worship thee. 
And thy bold spirit, more than he. 
Oft when, in childhood, I have play'd 

">Vith the bright falchion by his side, 
I've heard him swear his lisping maid 

In time should be a warrior's bride. 
And still, whene'er, at Haram hours, 
I tike hin; cool sherbets and flowers, 
He tells me, when in playful mood, ' 

A hero shall my bridegroom be, 
Since maids are best in battle woo'd 

And won with shouts of victory ! 
Nay, turn not from me thou alone 
Art form'd to make both hearts thy own. 



Go join his sacred ranks thou knowst 

The unholy strife these Persians wage : 
Good Heaven, that frown ! even now thou 

glowst 

With more than mortal warrior's rage. 
Haste to the camp'by morning's light, 
And, when that sword is raised in fight, 
Oh, still remember love anrf I 
Beneath its shadow trembling lie ! 
One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire, 
Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire 

Abhors " 

" Hold, hold thy words are death !" 
The stranger cried, as wild he flung 
His mantle back, and show'd beneath 

The Gheber belt that round him clung. 1 
" Here, maiden, look weep blush to see 
All that thy sire abhors in me ! 
Yes /am of that impious race, 

Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even, 
Hail their Creator's dwelling-place 
Among the living lights of heaven !' 
Yes Jam of that outcast few 
To Iran and to vengeance true, 
Who curse the hour your Arabs came 
To desolate our shrines of flame, 
And swear, before God's burning eye, 
To break our country's chains, or die ! 
Thy bigot sire nay, tremble not 

He who gave birth to those dear eyes 
With me is sacred as the spot 

From which our fires of worship rise 1 
But know 'twas he I sought that night, 



1 "They (the Ghebere) lay o much strew on their cushe* 
ir girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it" 
"Pour Be distinguer des idolatres de 1'Inde, les Guebres M 
eignent tons d'un cordon de laine, on de poil de chameau." 
Enct/Oopedit Franfoise. 
D'Derbelot says this belt was generally of leather. 

" They suppose the throne of the Almighty Is seated In 
IB sun, and hence their worship of that luminary.'* 
"As to fire, ths Ghebers place the spring-head of It In that 
;lobe of flre, the snn, by them called Mythras, or Mihir, to 
which they pay the highest reverence, in gratitude for the 
nanifold benefits flowing from its ministerial omn *cience. 
tut they are so far from confounding the subordination of the 
errant with the majesty of its Creator, that they not only 
ttribnte no sort of sense or reasoning to the snn or flre A 
ny of its operations, but consider it as a purely passive blind 
istmment, directed and governed by the Immediate impres- 
on on it of the will of God ; but they do not even give that 
nminary, all-glorious as it is, more than the second rank 
mongst his works, reserving the first for that stupendous 
reduction of divine power, the mind of man." Grose. The 
alse charges brought against the religion of these people by 
heir Mussulman tyrants is but one proof ainoni; many of the 
ruth of this writer's remark, "that calumny is often added t 
ppression, if but for the sake of Justifying it." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



123 



When, from my watch-boat on the sea, 
I caught this turret's glimmering light, 

And up the rude rocks desperately 
Ru&h'd to my prey thou knowst the rest 
I climb'd the gory vulture's nest, 
And found a trembling dove within; 
Thiny, thine the victory thine the sin 
If Love has made one thought his own, 
Tliut Vengeance claims first last alone ! 
Oh ! had we never, never met, 
Or could this heart even now forget 
How link'd, how bless'd we might have been, 
Had fate not frown'd so dark between ! 
Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, 

In neighboring valleys had we dwelt, 
Through the same fields in childhood play'd, 

At the same kindling altar knelt, 
Then, then, while all those nameless ties, 
In which the charm of country lies, 
Hud round our hearts been hourly spun, 
Till Iran's cause and thine were one ; 
While in thy lute's awakening sigh 
I lizard the voice of days gone by, 
And saw in every smile of thine 
Returning hours of glory shine ! 
While the wrong'd spirit of our land 

Lived, _^ok'd. and spoke her wrongs 

througl thee 
God ! who oould then this sword withstand ? 

Its very flash were victory I 
But now, estranged, divorced forever, 
Fur as the grasp of Fate can sever 
Our only ties what love has wove 

Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide ; 
And then, then only true to love, 

When false to all that's dear beside ! 
Thy father Iran's deadliest foe 
Thyself, perhaps, even now but no 
Hate never look'd so lovely yet ! 

No sacred to thy soul will be 
The land of him who could forget 

All but that bleeding land for thee ! 
When other eyes shall see, unmoved, 

Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, 
Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved, 

And for his sake thou'lt weep for all ! 

But look " 

With sudden start he turn'd 
And pointed to the distant wave, 
Where lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd 

Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave ; 



And fiery darts, at intervals,' 

Flew up all sparkling from the main, 

As if each star that nightly falls, 

Were shooting back to heaven again. 

" My signal lights ! I must away * 

Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay. 

Farewell, sweet life ! thou clingst in vain 

Now, vengeance, I am thine again !" 

Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd, 

Nor look'd but from the lattice dropp'd 

Down mid the pointed crags beneath, 

As if h'e fled from love to death. 

While pale and mute young Hinda stood, 

Nor moved, till in the silent flood 

A momentary plunge below 

Startled her from her trance of woe ; 

Shrieking she to the lattice flew, 

" I come I come if in that tide 
Thou sleepst to-night I'll sleep there too, 

In death's cold wedlock by thy side. 
Oh,. I would ask no happier bed 

Than the chill wave my love lies under ;- - 
Sweeter to rest together dead, 

Far sweeter, than to live asunder !" 
But no their hour is not yet come 

Again she sees his pinnace fly, 
Wafting him fleetly to his home, 

Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie; 
And calm and smooth it seem'd to win 

Its moonlight way before the wind, 
As if it bore all peace within, 

Nor left one breaking heart behind ! 

The Princess, whose heart was sad enough 
already, could have wished that Feramorz 
had chosen a less melancholy story ; as it is 
only to the happy that tears are a luxury. 
Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry 
that love was once more the poet's theme; 
for when he spoke of love, they said, his 
voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the 
leaves of that enchanted tree which grow* 
over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein.* 



' " The Mamelukes that were in the other boat, when it wa 
dark, used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air, which, 
in some measure, resembled lightning or falling stars." 

" At Gualior is a small tomb to the memory of Tan-8eln, 
a musician of incomparable skill, who flourishea at the court 
of Akbar. The tomb is overshadowed by a tree, concerning 
which a superstitions notion prevails, that the chewing of iu 
leaves will give an extraordinary melody to the vj 1 ;*. 1 * 
Journey from Agra Co Oiuxin, by W. Hunter, Beg 



124 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Their road all the morning had lain through 
a very dreary country through valleys, cov- 
ered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more 
than one place, the awful signal of the bam- 
boo staff, 1 with the white flag at its top, 
rerrfinded the traveller that in that very spot 
the tiger had made some human creature his 
victim. It was therefore with mueh pleasure 
that they arrived at sunset in a safe and 
lovely glen, and encamped under one of those 
holy trees, whose smooth columns and 
spreading roofs seem to destine them for 
natural temples of religion. Beneath the 
shade, some pious hands had erected pillars,' 
ornamented with the most beautiful porce- 
lain, which now supplied the use of mirrors 
to the young maidens, as they adjusted their 
hair in descending from the palankeens. 
Here while, as usual, the Princess sat listen- 
ing anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his 
loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the 
young poet, leaning against a branch of the 
tree, thus continued his story : 

The morn has risen clear and calm, 

And o'er the Green Sea' palely shines, 
Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm, 

And lighting KishmaV amber vines. 
Fresh smell the shores of Araby, 
While breezes from the Indian Sea 
Blow round SelarnaV sainted cape, 

And curl the shining flood beneath, 
Whose waves are rich with many a grape, 

And cocoanut and flowery wreath, 
Which pious seamen, as they pass'd, 
Have toward that holy headland cast 
Oblations to the genii there 
For gentle skies and breezes fair ! 



1 "It U usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed to 

bamboo staff of ten or twelve feet long, at the piece where a 
tiger has destroyed a man. The sight of these flags imparts 
a certain melancholy, not perhaps altogether void of appre- 
hension." Oriental Field Sporte, voi. ii. 

1 "The Fleus indica is called the Pagod Tree and Tree of 
Conncl t ; the first from the idols placed under its shade ; the 
second, because meetings were held under its cool branches. 
In some places It is be.lcved to be the haunt of spectres, as 
the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have been of fairies in 
others are erected beneath the shade pillars of stone, or posts, 
elegantly carved and ornamented with the most beautiful por- 
celain to supply the use of mirrors." Pmnant. 

' The Persian Gulf. 

Islands in the Gulf. 

Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the en- 
trap** of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. 



The nightingale now bends her flight* 
From the high trees, where all the night 

She sung so sweet, with none to listen ; 
And hides her from the morning star 

Where thickets of'pomegranate glisten 
In the clear dawn; bespangled o'er 

With dew, whose night-drops would not 

stain 

The best and brightest scimitar' 
That ever youthful sultan wore 

On the first morning of his reign ! 

And see the sun himself! on wings 
Of glory up the east he springs. 
Angel of light ! who from the time 
Those heavens began their march sublime, 
Has first of all the starry chair 
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire ! 

Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere^ 
When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd 
To meet that eye where'er it burn'd? 

When, from the banks of Bendemeer 
To the nut-groves of Samarcand 
Thy temples flamed o'er all the land ? 
Where are they ? ask the shades of them 

Who, on CadessiaV bloody plains, 
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem 
From Iran's broken diadem, 

And bind her ancient faith in chains: 
Ask the poor exile, cast alone 
On foreign shores, unloved, unknown, 
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates,' 

Or on the snowy Mossian Mountains, 
Far from his beauteous land of dates, 

Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains t 
Yet happier so than if he trod 
His own beloved but blighted sod, 
Beneath a despot stranger's nod ! 
Oh ! he would rather houseless roam 

Where Freedom and his God may lead, 
Than be the sleekest slave at home 

That crouches to the conqueror's creed ' 



" The nightingale sings from the pomegranate-groves IB 
the day-time, and from the loftiest trees at night." RuteeTt 
Aleppo. 

' In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, 
' The dew is of such a pure nature that, if the brightest scimi 
,ar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the 
least rust." 

The place where the Persians were finally defeated by th 
Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed. 

Derbeud. " Les Turcs appallent cette viUe Demir Cap!, 
Porte de For : ce sont les Casptae Portw dcs anciens." 



TOEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



125 



Ts Iran's pride then gone forever, 

Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's 

caves ? 

No she has sons that never never 
Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves, 
While heaven has light or earth has graves. 
Spirits of fire, that brood not long, 
But flash resentment back for wrong ; 
And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds 
Of vengeance ripen into deeds, 
Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, 
They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm, 1 
Whose buds fly open with a sound 
That shakes the pigmy forests round ! 

X"es, Emir ! he who scaled that tower, 

And, could he reach thy slumbering 

breast, 
Would teach thee, in a Gheber's power 

How safe even tyrant heads may rest 
Is one of many, brave as he, 
Who loathe thy haughty race and thee ; 
Who, though they know the strife is vain, 
Who, though they know the riven chain 
Snaps but to enter in the heart 
Of him who rends its links apart, 
Yet dare the issue, blest to be 
Even for one bleeding moment free, 
And die in pangs of liberty ! 
Thou knowst them well 'tis some moons 
since 

Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags, 
Thou satrap of a bigot prince ! 

Have swarm'd among these Green Sea 

crags ; 

Yet here, even here, a sacred band, 
Ay, in the portal of that land 
Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own, 
Their spears across thy path have thrown ; 
Here ere the winds half-wing'd thee o'er 
Rebellion braved thee from the shore. 

Rebellion ! foul, dishonoring word, 

Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd 

The holiest cause that tongue or sword 
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd. 

How many a spirit, born to bless, 

Has sunk beneath that withering name, 



1 "The Talpot or Talipot Palm Tree. The sheath which 
ei ''lops the flower IB very large, and, when It bursts, makes 
Hi explosion like the report of a cannon." Thunberg. 



Whom but a day's, an hour's success, 

Had wafted to eternal fame ! 
As exhalations, when they burst 
From the warm earth, if chill'd at first, 
If check'd in soaring from the plain, 
Darken to fogs, and sink again ; 
But if they once triumphant spread 
Their wings above the mountain-head, 
Become enthroned in upper air, 
And turn to sun-bright glories there ! 

And who is he that wields the might 

Of freedom on the Green Sea brink, 
Before whose sabre's dazzling light* 

The eyes of Yeman's warriors wink ? 
Who comes embower'd in the spears 
Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers ? 
Those mountaineers that truest, last, 

Cling to their country's ancient rites, 
As if that God, whose eyelids cast 

Their closing gleam on Iran's heights, 
Among her snowy mountains threw 
The last light of His worship too ! 

'Tis Hafed name of fear, whose sound 

Chills like the muttering of a charm : 
Shout but that awful name around, 

And palsy shakes the manliest arm. 
'Tis Hafed, most accurst and dire 
(So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire) 
Of all the rebel Sons of Fire ! 
Of whose malign, tremendous power 
The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour, 
Such tales of fearful wonder tell, 
That each afl'righted sentinel 
Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, 
Lest Hafed in the midst should risei 
A man, they say, of monstrous birth, 
A mingled race of flame and earth, 
Sprung from those old, enchanted kings 

Who in their fairy hulms, of yoiv, 
A feather from the mystic wings 

Of the Simoorgh resistless wort , 
And gifted, by the fiends of fire, 
Who groan'd to see their shrines ^tpire, 



"When the bright cimlters make the eyue c Trhero 
wink." The Mollakat, Poems of Amru. 

1 Tahmuras, and other ancient kings of Persia ; v hose ad- 
ventures in Fairy Land, among the Perls and Dives, may b 
found in Richardson's Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, 
they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmnras, 
with which he adorned his helmet, an* 1 Vanstnitted then 
afterward to his descendants. 



12G 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



With charms that, all in vain withstood, 
Would drown the Koran's light in blood ! 

Such were the tales that won belief, 

And such the coloring fancy gave 
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief, 

One who, no more than mortal brave, 
Fought for the land his soul adored, 

For happy homes and altars free, 
His only talisman the sword, 

His only spell-word, Liberty ! 
One of that ancient hero line, 
Along whose glorious current shine 
Names that have sanctified their blood ; 
As Lebanon's small mountain-flood 
Is render'd holy by the ranks' 
Of sainted cedars on its banks !' 
'Twas not for him to crouch the knee 
Tamely to Moslem tyranny : 
'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast 
In the bright mould of ages past. 
Whose melancholy spirit, fed 
With all the glories of the dead, 
Though framed for Iran's happiest years, 
Was born among her chains and tears ! 
'Twas not for him to swell the crowd 
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd 
Before the Moslem as he pass'd, 
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast ; 
No far he fled indignant fled 

The pageant of his country's shame ; 
While every tear her children shed 

Fell on his soul like drops of flame ; 
And as a lover hails the dawn 

Of a first smile, so welcomed he 
The sparkle of the first sword drawn 

For vengeance and for liberty ! 

But vain was valor vain the flower 
Of Kerinan, in that deathful hour, 
Against Al Hassan's whelming power. 
In vain they met him, helm to helm, 
Upon the threshold of that realm 
He came in bigot pomp to sway, 



1 In the Lettrts Ediflantes, there is a different cause as- 
ilgned for its name of holy. "In these are deep caverns, 
which formerly served as so many cells for a great number of 
recluses, who had chosen these retreats as the only witnesses 
upon the earth of the severity of their penance. The tears of 
these pions penitents gave the river of which we have just 
Created the name of the Holy River." Vide Chateaubriand's 
- Betie> of Christianity." 

" TM milet," says Dandini, " Is tailed the Holy Hirer, 
*oai the tedar-saints' anong which it risei." 



And with their corpses block'd his wny ; 
In vain for every lance they raised 
Thousands around the conqueror blazc-d ; 
For every arm that lined their shore. 
Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er, 
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, 
Before whose swarm as fast they bowM 
As dates beneath the locust-cloud ! 

There stood but one short league away 
From old Harmozia's sultry bay 
A rocky mountain o'er the Sea 1 
Of Oman beetling awfully, 
A last and solitary link 

Of those stupendous chains that reach 
From the broad Caspian's reedy brink 

Down winding to the Green Sea beacb 
Around its base the bare rocks stood, 
Like naked giants in the flood, 

As if to guard the gulf across ; 
While on its peak, that braved the skjr 
A ruin'd temple tower'd so high 

That oft the sleeping albatross* 
Struck the wild ruins with her wine 1 , 
And from her cloud-rock'd slumberhi, 
Started to find man's dwelling there 
In her own silent fields of air ! 
Beneath, terrific caverns gave 
Dark welcome to each stormy wave 
That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in ; 
And such the strange, mysterious din 
At times throughout those caverns roll'd, 
And such the fearful wonders told 
Of restless sprites imprison'd there, 
That bold were Moslem who would dare, 
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff 
Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.' 

On the land side, those towers sublime, 
That seem'd above the grasp of Time, 
Were sever'd from the haunts of men 
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, 



' This mountain is my own creation, as the " stnpeu vn 
chain" of which I suppose it a link does not extend qcil* w 
Car as the shore of the Persian Gulf. 

4 These birds sleep in the air. They are most commo 
about the Cape of Qood Hope. 

"There is an extraordinary hill In the neighborhood, 
called Kobe Gubr, or the Gnebre's mountain. It rises in the 
form of a lofty cupola, and on the summit of it, they say, are 
the remains of Atnsh Kudu or Fire Temple. It is snpcreti- 
tionsly held to be the residence of Deeves or Sprites, and 
many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and witch- 
craft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend 
or explore it." Pottlnger't Bdoochistan. 



POEMS OF TIIOMAS MOORE. 



127 



So fathomless, so full of gloom, 

No eyo could pierce the void between; 
It seam'd a place where ghouls might come 
With their foul banquets from the tomb, 

And in its caverns feed unseen. 
Like distant thunder, from below 

The sound of many torrents came ; 
I'oo deep for eye or ear to know 
\f 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow, 

Or floods of ever-restless flame. 
For each ra/hie, each rocky spire 
Of that vast mountain stood on fire ;' 
And though forever past the days 
When God was worshipp'd in the blaze 
That from its lofty altar shone, 
Though fled the priestc, the votaries gone, 
Still did the mighty flame burn on' 
Through chance and change, through good 

and ill, 

Like its own God's eternal *ill, 
Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable 1 

Thither the vanquish'd Hafed leJ 

His little army's last remains ;- 
" Welcome, terrific glen !" he said, 
"Thy gloom, thatEblis' self might iread, 

Is heaven to him who flies from cLains !" 
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known 
To him and to his chiefs alone, 
They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the 

towers ; 

"This home," he cried, " at least is ouis 
Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymus 

Of Moslem triumph o'er our head ; 
Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs 

To quiver to the Moslem's tread. 
Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks 
Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks, 
Here happy that no tyrant's eye 
floats on our torments we may die !" 

'Twas night when to those towers they came, 
And gloomily the fitful flame, 
That from the ruin'd altar broke, 



1 The Ghebers generally ouilt their temples over snbterra- 
eon fires. 

' " At the city of Yezd In Persia, which is distinguished by 
the appellation of the Darub Abadut. or Seat of Religion, the 
Guebres are permitted to have an Atush Kndn or Fire Temple 
(which they assert has had the sacred fire in It since the days 
of Zoroaster) ID their own compartment of the city ; bat for 
this Indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the toler 
Inca of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty- 
ST rupees each man." Pottingtr's Betoochtetan. 



Glared ou his features as he spoke : 

" 'Tis o'er what men could do. we've done- 

If Iran will look tamely on, 

And see her priests, her warriors driven 

Before a sensual bigot's uod, 
A wretch who takes his lusts to heaven, 

And makes a pander of his God ! 
If her proud sons, her high-born souls, 

Men in whose veins oh, last disgrace ! 
The blood of Zal and Rustam 8 rolls, 

If they will court this upstart race, 
And turn from M'.thra's ancient ray, 
To kneel at shrines of yesterday ! 
If they will crouch to Iran's foes, 

Why, let them till the land's despair 
Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows 

Too vile for even the vile to bear ! 
Till shame at last, long hidden, burns 
Their inmost core, and conscience turns 
Each coward tear the slave lets fall 
Back on his heart in drops of gall ! 
But here, at least, are arms unchain'd, 
And souls that thraldom never stain'd ; 

This spot, at least, no tool of slavt 
Or satrap ever yet profaned ; 

And though but few though fast the w:i v 
Of life is ebbing from our veins, 
Enough for vengeance still remains 
As panthers, after set of sun, 
Rush from the roots of Lebanon 
Across the dark sea-robber's way, 
We'll bound upon our startled prey ; 
And when some hearts that proudest swell 
Have felt our falchion's last farewell ; 
When Hope's expiring throb is o'er, 
And even Despair can prompt no more, 
This spot shall be the sacred grave 
Of the last few who, vainly brave, 
Die for the land they cannot save 1" 

His chiefs stood round each shining blade 
Upon the broken altar laid - 
And though so wild and desolate 
Those courts, where once the mighty sate; 
Nor longer on those mouldering towers 
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers, 
With which of old the Magi fed 
The wandering spirits of their dead ;' 



Ancient heroes of Persia. "Among the Gheberi Inert 
| an- some who boast their descent from Rustam." 
I " Among other ceremonies, the Magi used to place npoi 
I the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upon 



128 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Though neither priest nor rites were there, 

Nor charm'd leaf of pure pomegranate;' 
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air, 

Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet;' 
Yet the same God that heard their sires 
Heard them, while on that altar's fires 
They swore 1 the latest, holiest deed 
Of the few hearts still left to bleed, 
Should be in Iran's injured name 
To die upon that mount of flame 
The last of all her patriot line, 
Before her last untrampled shrine ! 
Brave, suffering souls ! they little knew 
How many a tear their injuries drew 
Prom one meek heart, one gentle foe, 
Whom Love first touch'd with others' woe 
Whose life, as free from thought as sin, 
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in 
His talisman, and woke the tide, 
And spread its trembling circles wide. 
Once, Emir! thy unheeding child, 
Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smiled 
Tranquil as on some battle-plain 

The Persian lily shines and towers, 4 
Before the combat's reddening stain 

Had fallen upon her golden flowers. 
Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved, 
While Heaven but spared the sire she loved, 
Once at thy evening tales of blood 
Unlistening and aloof she stood 
And oft, when thou hast paced along 

Thy Haram halls with furious heat, 
Hast thou not cursed her cheerful song, 

That came across thee, calm and sweet, 
Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near 
Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear ? 
Far other feelings love has brought 

Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, 



nhich It was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their de- 
parted heroes regaled themselves." 

1 In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their are, as de- 
scribed by Lord. "The Daroo," he says, "giveth them water 
to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in the mouth, to 
cleanse them from inward uncleannesg." 

' ' Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebere at 
Uulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the sun, to 
whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, made 
dy magic, resembling the circles of the sun, and when the sun 
rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a 
great noise. They have every one a censer in their hands, 
nd offer incense to the sun." 

1 "Nul d'entre eux oseroit e perjurer, quand 11 a pris a 
U'Tuoin cet element terrible et vevgem."Encyclopeaie 
t'rrtnffnt. 

4 "A vivid verdure succeeds tac autumnal reins, and the 
pu.sghed fields are covered with the Persian lily, of a ntplen- 
itnt jllow color."- -Rutieft Aleppo. 



She now has but the one dear thoucrht, 

o i 

And thinks that o'er, almost to madness ! 
Oft doth her sinking heart recall 
His words " For my sake, weep for all ;" 
And bitterly, as day on day 

Of rebel carnage fast succeeds, 
She weeps a lover snatch'd away 

In every Gheber wretch that bleeds. 
There's not a sabre meets her eye, 

But with his life-blood seems to swim ; 
There's not an arrow wings the sky 

But fancy turns its point to him. 
No more she brings with footstep light 
Al Hassan's falchion for the fight ; 
And had he look'd with clearer sight, 
Had not the mists, that ever rise 
From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes 
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame, 
When from the field of blood he came, 
The faltering speech the look estranged 
Voice, step, and life, and beauty changed ; 
He would have mark'd all this, and known 
Such change is wrought by love alone 1 

Ah ! not the love that should have bless'd 
So young, so innocent a breast ; 
Not the pure, open, prosperous love 
That, pledged on earth and seal'd above, 
Grows in the world's approving eyes, 

In friendship's smile and home's caress, 
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties 

Into one knot of happiness ! 
No, Hinda, no thy fatal flame 
Is nursed in silence, sorrow, shame. 

A passion, without hope or pleasure, 
In thy soul's darkness buried deep 

It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure, 
Some idol, without shrine or name, 
O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep 
Unholy watch, while others sleep ! 

Seven nights have darken'd Oman's Sea, 
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray, 
She saw his light oar rapidly 

Hurry her Gheber's birk away ; 
And still she goes, at midnight hour, 
To weep alone in that high bower, 
And watch, and look along the deep 
For him whose smiles first made her weep, 
But watching, weeping, all was vain, 
She never saw that bark again. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



129 



The owlet's solitary cry, 

The night-hawk, flitting darkly by, 

And oft the hateful carrion-bird, 
Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing, 
Which reek'd with that day's banqueting 

Was all she saw, was all she heard. 

Tis the eighth morn Al Hassan's brow 

Is brighten'd with unusual joy 
What mighty mischief glads him now, 

Who never smiles but to destroy ? 
The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea, 
When tost at midnight furiously, 1 
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, 
More surely than that smiling eye ! 
" Up, daughter, up the KernaV breath 
Has blown a blast would waken Death, 
And yet thou sleepst up, child, and see 
This blessed day for Heaven and me, 
A day more rich in Pagan blood 
Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood. 
Before another dawn shall shine, 
His head heart limbs will all be mine ; 
This very night his blood shall steep 
These hands all over ere I sleep !" 
" His blood !" she faintly scream'd her mind 
Still singling one from all mankind. 

"Yes, spite of his ravine* and towers, 
Hafed, my child, this night is ours. 
Thanks to all-conquering treachery, 

Without whose aid the links accurst, 
That bind these impious slaves, would be 

Too strong for Alla's self to burst ! 
That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread 
My path with piles of Moslem dead, 
Whose baffling spells had almost driven 
Back from their course the swords of Heaven, 
This night, with all his band, shall know 
How deep an Arab's steel can go, 
When God and vengeance speed the blow. 
And Prophet ! by that holy wreath 
Thou worest on Ohod's field of death 
I swear, for every sob that parts 
In anguish from these heathen hearts, 



' ' It IB observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that 
wnen It is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire." 

" A kind of trumpet ; it " was that nsed by Tamerlane, the 
ouri of which is so lond as to be heard at the distance of 
everal miles." 

" lobammed bad two helmets, an interior and exterior 
we , Ma latter of which, called Al Mawashah, the wreathed 
viand he wore at the battle of Ohoo 



A gem from Persia's pluudt-r'd mines 
Shall glitter on thy shrine of shrines. 
Hut, ha ! she sinks that look so wild 
Those livid lips my child, my child, 
This life of blood befits not thee, 
And thou must back to Araby. 

Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex 
In scenes that man himself might dread, 
Had I not hoped our every tread 

Would be on prostrate Persian necks 
Curst race, they offer swords instead ! 
But cheer thce, maid, the wind that now 
Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow 
To-day shall waft thee from the shore ; 
And, ere a drop of this night's gore 
Hath time to chill in yonder towers, 
Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers !" 

His bloody boast was all too true - 
There hirk'd one wretch among the few 
Whom Hafed's eagle eye could count 
Around him on that fiery mount, 
One miscreant, who for gold betray'd 
The pathway through the valley's shade 
To those high towers where Freedom stood 
In her last hold of flame and blood 
Left on the field last dreadfu.. night. 
When, sallying from their sacred height, 
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell figlit, 
He lay but died not with the brave ; 
That sun, which should have gilt his grave, 
Saw him a traitor and a slave ; 
And, while the few, who thence return'd 
To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd 
For him among the matchless dead 
They left behind on glory's bed, 
He lived, and, in the face of morn, 
Laugh'd them and faith and heaven to scorn! 

Oh for a tonarue to curse the slave, 

O * 

Whose treason, like a deadly blight, 
Comes o'er the counsels of the brave, 

And blasts them in their hour of might ! 
May life's unblessed cup for him 
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim, 
With hopes that but allure to fly, 

With joys that vanish while he sips, 
Like Dead-Sea fruits that tempt the eye, 4 

But turn to ashes on the lips ! 

" They pay that there are apple-trees upon the Bide* of 
this sea. which bear very lovely fruit, but withir ar* fall of 



130 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



His country's curse, his children's shame, 
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, 
May he, at last, with lips of flame, 
On the parch'd desert thirsting die, 
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh 1 
Are fading oif, untouch'd, untastod, 
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
And, when from earth his spirit flies, 

Just Prophet, let the damn'd one dwell 
Full in the sight of Paradise, 

Beholding heaven, and feeling hell ! 

Lalla Rookh had had a dream the night 
before, which, in spite of the impending fate 
of poor Hafed, made her heart more than 
usually cheerful during the morning, and 
gave her cheeks all the freshened animation 
of a flower that the Bid-musk had just passed 
over.' She fancied that she was sailing on 
that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies,' 
who live forever on the water, enjoy a per- 
petual summer in wandering from isle to isle, 
when she saw a small gilded bark approach- 
ing her. It was like one of those boats 
which the Maldivian islanders annually send 
adrift, at, the mercy of winds and waves, 
loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odorifer- 
ous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom 
they call King of the Sea. At first this 
little bark appeared to be empty, but on 
coming nearer 



ashes." Thevenot. The same is asserted of the oranges there. 
Vide Wilman's Travels in Asiatic Turkey. 

Lord Byron has a similar allusion to the fruits of the Dead 
Sea, in that wonderful display of genius his Third Canto of 
" ChiMe Harold" magnificent beyond anything, perhaps, that 
even he has ever written. 

'' The Shnhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused 
oy the refraction of the atmosphere from extreme heat ; and. 
which augments the delusion, it Is most frequent In hollows, 
where water might be expected to lodge. I have seen bushes 
aud trees reflected in it, with as much accuracy as though it 
had been the face of a clear and still lake." Pottinger. 

"As to the unbelievers, their works are like a vapor in a 
plain, which the thirsty traveller thinketb to be water, until 
when he Cometh thereto he findeth it to be nothing." Koran, 
chap. 24. 

1 "A wind which prevails in February, called Bidmusk, 
from a small and odoriferous flower of that name." ** The 
wind which blows these flowers commonly lasts till the end 
jf the month." Le Bruyn. 

"The Biajus are of two races; the one Is settled on 
Borneo, and are a rade but warlike and industrious nation, 
who reckon themoelves the original possessors of the Island 
f Borneo. The othsr is a species of sea-gipsies or itinerant 
fishermen, who live in email covered boats, and enjoy a per- 
etnal summer oc >&? eastern ocean, shifting to leeward from 
sland to island, with the variations of the monsoon " Or 
Lti/dtn on Uu Indo-Chinese Nation*. 



She had proceeded thus far in relating the 
dream to her ladies, when Feramorz appeared 
at the door of the pavilion. In his presence 
of course, everything else was forgotten, 
and the continuance of the story was in- 
stantly requested by all. Fresh wood of 
aloes was set to burn in the cassolets ; the 
violet sherbets* were hastily handed round, 
and, after a short prelude on his lute, in the 
pathetic measure of Nava,' which it> always 
used to express the lamentations of absent 
lovers, the poet thus continued : 

The day is lowering stilly black 
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack, 
Dispersed and wild, 'twixt earth and sky 
Hangs like a shatter'd canopy ! 
There's not a cloud in that blue plain 

But tells of storm to come or past ; 
Here, flying loosely as the mane 

Of a young war-horse in the blast ; 
There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling, 
As proud to be the thunder's dwelling ! 
While some, already burst and riven, 
Seem melting down the verge of heaven ; 
As though the infant storm had rent 

The mighty womb that gave him birth, 
And, having swept the firmament, 

Was now in fierce career for eart h. 
On earth 'twa all yet calm around, 
A pulseless silence, dread, profound, 
More awful than the tempest's sound. 
The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers, 
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours ; 
The sea-birds, with portentous screech, 
Flew fast to land ; upon the beach 
The pilot oft had paused with glance 
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse ; 
And all was boding, drear, and dark 
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark 
Went slowly from the Persian shore. 
No music timed her parting oar,* 
Nor friends upon the lessening strand 



" The sweet-scented violet Is one of the plants most es- 
teemed, particularly for its great use In Sorbet, which thej 
make of violet sugar." Hasselqvist. 

" The sherbet they most esteem, and which Is drank by 1 be 
Grand Signor himself, Is made of violets and sugar." 
Tawrnier. 

" Last of all she took a guitar, and sung a pathetic *ir ia 
the measure called Nava, which Is always used to express th 
lamentations of absent lovers." Pertian Tilet. 

' "The Easterns used to set out oil their longer vcvww 
with music." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



131 



Linger'd to wave the unseen hand, 
Or speak the farewell, heard no more ; 
But lone, unheeded, from the bay 
The vessel takes its mournful way, 
Like some ill-destined bark that steers 
In silence through the Gate of Tears. 1 

And where was stern Al Hassan then ? 
Could not that saintly scourge of meu 
From bloodshed and devotion spare 
One minute for a farewell there ? 
No close within, in changeful fits 
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits 
In savage loneliness to brood 
Upon the coming night of blood, 

With that keen, second-scent of death, 
By which the vulture snuffs his food 

In the still warm and living breath !' 
While o'er the wave his weeping daughter 
Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter, 
As a young bird of Babylon, 
Let loose to tell of victory won, 
Flies home, with wing, ah ! not unstain'd 
By the red hands that held her chain'd. 
And does the long-left home she seeks 
Light up no gladness on her cheeks ? 
The flowers she nursed the well-kuown 

groves, 

Where oft in dreams her spirit roves 
Once more to see her dear gazelles 
Come bounding with their silver bells ; 
Her birds' new plumage to behold, 

And the gay, gleaming fishes count, 
She left, all filleted with gold, 

Shooting around their jasper fount.' 
Her little garden mosque to see, 

And once again, at evening hour, 
To tell her ruby rosary* 

In her own sweet acacia bower. 



1 " The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Bed 
Sea, called Babelmandeb. It received this name from the 
danger of the navigation and the number of shipwreck! by 
which it was distinguished ; which induced them to consider 
as dead all who had the boldness to hazard the passage 
thiongh it into the Ethiopic ocean." 

" I have been told that, whensoever an animal falls down 
dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appear." 

" The Empress of Jehan-Gnire used to divert herself with 
feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were many 
years afterward known by fillets of gold which nhe caused to 
Ve put round them." 

Le Tespih, qni est nn chapelet, composfi de 99 petites 
:oules d'agathe, de jaspe, d'ambre, de corail. on d'autre mati- 
ire prgcieuse. tTen ai vn un snperbe an Seigneur Jerpos ; 11 

4toit de belles et sroww perles parfaites et ggales, estimS 
*-ente mille piastre! " Toiierini. 



Can these delights, that wait her LOW, 

Call up no sunshine on her brow ? 

No ; silent, from her train apart, 

As if even now she felt at heart 

The chill of her approaching doom, 

She sits, all-lovely in her gloom 

As a pale angel of the grave ; 

And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave, 

Looks, with a shudder, to those towers, 

Where, in a few short awful hours, 

Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run, 

Foul incense for to-morrow's sun ! 

" Where art thou, glorious stranger ! thou, 

So loved, so lost, where art thou now ? 

Foe Gheber infidel whate'er 

The unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear,, 

Still glorious still to this fond heart 

Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art ! 

Yes Alia, dreadful Alia ! yes 

If there be wrong, be crime in this, 

Let the black waves that round us roll 

Whelm me this instant, ere my soul, 

Forgetting faith, home, father, all 

Before its earthly idol, fall, 

Nor worship even thyself above him. 

For oh ! so wildly do I love him, 

Thy Paradise itself were dim 

And joyless, if not shared with him 1" 

Her hands were clasp'd her eyes upturn'd, 

Dropping their tears like moonlight rain, 
And though her lip, fond raver, bnrn'd 

With words of passion, bold, profane, 
Yet was there light around her brow 

A holiness in those dark eyes, 
Which show'd though wandering earth- 
ward now, 

Her spirit's home was in the skies. 
Yes, for a spirit pure as hers 
Is always pure, even while it errs ; 
As sunshine, broken in the rill, 
Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still ! 

So wholly had her mind forgot 
All thoughts but one, she heedel not 
The rising storm the wave that cast 
A moment's midnight, as it pass'd 
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread 
Of gathering tumult o'er her head 
Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to via 
With th rude riot of the sky. 



132 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But hark ! that warwhoop on the deck 

That crash, as if each engine there, 
Masts, sails, and all were gene to wreck, 

Mid yells and stampings of despair ! 
Merciful Heaven ! what can it be ? 
Tis not the storm, though fearfully 
The ship has shudder'd as she rode 
O'er mountain waves " Forgive me, God ! 
Forgive me," shriek'd the maid, and knelt, 
Trembling all over, for she felt 
As if her judgment-hour was near; 
While crouching round, half dead with feas, 
Her handmaids clung, nor breathed, nor 

stirr'd 

When, hark ! a second crash a third ; 
And now, as if a bolt of thunder 
Had riven the laboring planks asunder, 
The deck falls in what horrors then 1 
Blood, waves, and tackle, swords and men 
Come mix'd together through the chasm ; 
Some wretches in their dying spasm 
Still fighting on and some that call 
"For God and Iran !" as they fall 

Whose was the hand that turn'd away 
The perils of the infuriate fray, 
And snatch'd her breathless from beneath 
This wilderment of wreck and death ? 
She knew not for a faintness came 
Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame 
Amid the ruins of that hour 
Lay like a pale and scorched flower, 
Beneath the red volcano's shower ! 
But oh ! the sights and sounds of dread 
That shock'd her, ere her senses fled ! 
The yawning deck the crowd that strove 
Upon the tottering planks above 
The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er 
The stragglers' heads, all dash'd with gore, 
Flutter'd like bloody flags the clash 
Of sabres, and the lightning's flash 
Upon their blades, high toss'd about 
Like meteor brands' as if throughout 

The elements one fury ran, 
One general rage, that left a doubt 

Which was the fiercer, Heaven or man ! 

Once, too but no it could not be 

'Twas fancy all yet once she thought, 
While yet her fading eyes could see, 

1 The meteors that Pliny calla " Faces." 



High on the ruin'd deck she caught 
A glimpse of that unearthly form, 

That glory of her soul, even then, 
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, 

Shining above his fellow-men, 
As, on some black and troublous night, 
The star of Egypt, 1 whose proud light 
Never has beam'd on those who rest 
In the White Islands of the West, 
Burns through the storm with looks of flame 
That put heaven's cloudier eyes to shame 
But no 'twas but the minute's dream 
A fantasy and ere the scream 
Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips, 
A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse 
Of soul and sense its darkness spread 
Around her, and she sunk, as dead ! 

How calm, how beautiful comes on 
The stilly hour, when storms are gone ; 
When warring winds have died away, 
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, 
Melt oflf, and leave the land and sea 
Sleeping in bright tranquillity, 
Fresh as if day again were born, 
Again upon the lap of Morn ! 
When the light blossoms, rudely torn 
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will, 
Hang floating in the pure air still, 
Filling it all with precious balm, 
In gratitude for this sweet calm ; 
And every drop the thunder showers 
Have left upon the grass and flowers 
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-g^m 1 
Whose liquid flame is born of them ! 

When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze. 
There blow a thousand gentle airs, 
And each a different perfume bears, 

As if the loveliest plants and trees 
Had vassal breezes of their own 
To watch and wait on them alone, 
And waft no other breath than theirs ! 
When the blue waters rise and fall, 
In sleepy sunshine mantling all ; 
And even that swell the tempest leaves 
Is like the full and silent heaves 



1 " The brilliant Canopus, unseen In European climates." 
A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancient! 
cerauuinm, because it was supposed to be found In plaMd 
where thunder had fallen. Tertnil'ian says It has a glittering 
appearance, us If there had been fire in it ; and othere supioa. 
It to be the opal. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOHK. 



1)33 



Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest, 
Too newly to be quite at rest ! 

Such was the golden hour that broke 
Upon the world, when Hinda woke 
From her long trance, and heard around 
No motion but the water's sound 
Rippling against the vessel's side, 
As slow it mounted o'er the tide. 
But where is she ? her eyes are dark, 
Are wilder'd still is this the bark, 
The same, that from Harmozia's bay 
Bore her at morn whose bloody way 
The sea-dog tracks ? no strange and new 
Is all that meets her wondering view. 
Upon a galliot's deck she lies, 

Beneath no rich pavilion's shade, 
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes, 

Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. 
But the rude litter, roughly spread 
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, 
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung, 
For awning o'er her head are flung. 
Shuddering she look'd around there lay 

A group of warriors in the sun 
Resting their limbs, as for that day 

Their ministry of death were done. 
Some gazing on the drowsy sea, 
Lost in unconscious reverie ; 
And soma, who seem'd but ill to brook 
That sluggish calm, with many a look 
To the slack sail impatient cast, 
As loose it flagg'd around the mast. 

Blest Alia ! who shall save her now ? 

There's not in all that warrior-band 
One Arab sword, one turban'd brow, 

From her own faithful Moslem land. 
Pheir garb the leathern belt that wraps 

Each yellow vest 1 that rebel hue 
The Tartar fleece upon their caps* 

Yes yes her fears are all too true, 
i\.nd Eleaven hath, in this dreadful hour, 
Abandon'd her to Hafed's power ; 
Hafed, the Gheber ! at the thought 

Her very heart's-blood chills within ; 
lie, whom her soul was hourly taught 

To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin, 

1 '* The Ghebers are known by a dark yellow color which 
the raec affect in their clothes." 

' "The Kolah. or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of Hie 
kin of the gheep of Tartary." 



Some minister whom hell had sent 
To spread its blast where'er he wont, 
And -ing, as o'er our earth he trod, 
His shadow betwixt man and God ! 
And she is now his captive, thrown 
In his fierce hands, alive, alone ; 
His the infuriate band she sees, 
All infidels all enemies! 
What was the daring hope that then 
Cross'd her like lightning, as again, 
With boldness that despair had lent, 

She darted through that armSd crowd 
A look so searching, so intent,. 

That even the sternest warrior bow'd 
Abash'd, when he her glances caught, 
As if he guess'd whose form they sought ? 
But no she sees him not 'tis gone, 
The vision, that before her shone 
Through all the maze of blood and storm, 
Is fled 'twas but a phantom form 
One of those passing rainbow dreams, 
Half light, half shade, which Fancy's 
Paint on the fleeting mists that roll 
In trance or slumber round the soul ! 

But now the bark, with livelier bound, 
Scales the blue wave the crew's id 

motion 
The oars are out, and with light sound 

Break the bright mirror of the ocean, 
Scattering its brilliant fragments round. 
And now she sees with horror sees 
Their course is toward that mountain hold, 
Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze, 
Where Mecca's godless enemies 
Lie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'd 
In their last deadly, venomous fold ! 
Amid the illumined land and flood 
Sunless that mighty mountain stood , 
Save where, above its awful head, 
There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, 
As 'twere the flag of destiny 
Hung out to mark where death would be 1 

O 

Had her bewilder'd mind the power 
Of thought in this terrific hour, 
She well might marvel where or how 
Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow 
Since ne'er had Arab heard or known 
Of path but through the glen alone. 
But every thought is lost in fear. 



134 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



When, as their bounding hark drew near 
The craggy base, she felt the waves 
Hurry them toward those dismal caves 
That from the deep in windings pass 
Beneath that mount's volcanic mass 
And loud a voice on dtck commands 
To lower the mast and light the brands ! 
Instantly o'er the dashing tide 
Within a cavern's mouth they glide, 
Gloomy as that eternal porch 

Through which departed spirits go ; 
Not even the flare of brand and torch 

Its flickering light could further throw 

Than the thick flood that boil'd below. 
Silent they floated as if each 
Sat breathless, and too awed for speech 
In that dark chasm, where even sound 
Seem'd dark, so sullenly around 
The goblin echoes of the cave 
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave, 
As 'twere some secret of the grave ! 
But soft, they pause the current turns 

Beneath them from its onward track ; 
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns 

The vexed tide, all foaming, back, 
And scarce the oar's redoubled force : 
l/an stem the eddy's whirling course 
When, hark .'some desperate foot has sprung 
Among the rocks the chain is flung 
The oars are up the grapple clings, 
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings. 
Just then, a day-beam through the shade 
Broke tremulous but, ere the maid 
, Can see from whence the brightness steals, 
Upon her brow she shuddering feels 
A viewless hand, that promptly ties 
A bandage round her burning eyes ; 
While the rude litter where she lies, 
Uplifted by the warrior throng, 
O'er the steep rocks is borne along. 

Blest power of sunshine ! genial Day, 
What balm, what life is in thy ray ! 
To feel thee is such real bliss, 
That had the world no joy but this, 
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet, 
It were a world too exquisite 
For man to leave it for the gloom, 
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb ! 
Even Hinda, though she saw not where 
Or whither wound the perilous road, 



Yet knew by that awakening air, 

Which suddenly around her glow'd, 
That they had risen from darkness then, 
And breathed the sunny world again ! 
But soon this balmy freshness fled 
For now the steepy labyrinth led 
Through damp and gloom 'mid crash of 

boughs, 

And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse 
The leopard from his hungry sleep, 

Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey, 
And long is heard from'steep to steep, 

Chasing them down their thundering way . 
The jackal's cry the distant moan 
Of the hyaena, fierce and lone ; 
And that eternal, saddening sound 

Of torrents in the glen beneath, 
As 'twere the ever-dark profound 

That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death I 
All, all is fearful even to see, 

To gaze on those terrific things 
She now but blindly hears, would be 

Relief to her imaginings ! 
Since never yet was shape so dread, 

But fancy, thus in darkness thrown, 
And by suh sounds of horror fed, 

Could frame more dreadful of her own. 

But does she dream ? has fear again 

Perplex'd the workings of her brain, 

Or did a voice, all music, then 

Come from the gloom, low whispering near 

" Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here ?" 

She does not dream all sense, all ear, 

She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here. 1 * 

'Twas his own voice she could not err 

Throughout the breathing world's extent 
There was but one such voice for her, 
So kind, so soft, so eloquent ! 
Oh ! sooner shall the rose of May 

Mistake her own sweet nightingale, 
And to some meaner minstrel's lay 

Open her bosom's glowing veil, 1 
Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, 
A breath of the beloved one ! 
Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think 

She has that one beloved near, 
Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink, 



" A frequent Image among the oriental poets. ' Th night 
Ingalee warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thii relta 
of the rose-bud and the rose.' " 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



135 



Has power to make even ruin dear, 
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, cross'd 
By fears for him, is chill'd and lost. 
How shall the ruthless Hafed brook 
That one of Gheber blood should look, 
With aught but curses in his eye, 
On her a maid of Araby 
A Moslem maid the child of him 

Whose bloody banner's dire success 
Has left their altars cold and dim, 

And their fair land a wilderness ! 
Ami, worse than all, that night of blood 

Which comes so fast oh ! who shall stay 
The sword that once has tasted food 
Of Persian hearts, or turn its way ? 
What arm shall then the victim cover, 
Or from her father shield her lover? 
' Save him, my God !" she inly cries 
'' Save him this night and if thine eyes 

Have ever welcomed with delight 
Thi- sinner's tears, the sacrifice 
Of sinners' hearts guard him this night, 
And here, before Thy throne, I swear 
From my heart's inmost core to tear 

Love, hope, remembrance, though they be 
Link'd with each quivering life-string there, 

And give it bleeding all to Thee ! 
Let him but live, the burning tear, 
The sighs, so sinful yet so dear, 
Which have been all too much his own, 
Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone. 
Youth pass'd in penitence, and age 
In long and painful pilgrimage, 
Shall leave no traces of the flame 
That wastes me now nor shall his name 
E'er bless my lips, but when I pray 
For his dear spirit, that away 
Casting from its angelic ray 
The eclipse of earth, he too may shine 
Rfdeem'd, all-glorious and all Thine ! 
Tli Ink think what victory to win 
One radiant soul like his from sin; 
One wandering star of virtue back 
To its own native, heavenward track ! 
Let him but live, and both are Thine, 

Together Thine for, blest or cross'd, 
Living or dead, his doom is mine, 

And if he perish, both are lost !" 

The next evening Lalla Rookh was en- 
treated by her ladies to continue the relation 



of her wonderful dream ; but the fearful 
interest that hung round the fate of Hinda 
and her lover had completely removed every 
trace of it from her mind much to the dis- 
appointment of a fair seer or two in her 
train, who prided themselves on their skill 
in interpreting visions, and who had already 
remarked, as an unlucky omen, that th 
Princess, on the very morning after the 
dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blos- 
soms of the sorrowful tree Nilica. 1 

Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than 
once broken out during the recital of some 
parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed 
at length to have made up his mind to the 
infliction ; and took his seat this evening 
with all the patience of a martyr, while the 
poet continued his profane and seditious 
story thus : 

To tearless eyes and hearts at ease 
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas 
That lay beneath that mountain's height 
Had been a fair, enchanting sight. 
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves 
A day of storm so often leaves 
At its calm setting when the West 
Opens her golden bowers of rest, 
And a moist radiance from the skies 
Shoots trembling down, as from the eyes 
Of some meek penitent, whose last, 
Bright hours atone for dark ones past, 
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven, 
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven ! 
'Twas stillness all the winds that late 
Had rnsh'd through Kerman's almond 

groves, 
And shaken from her bowers of date 

That cooling feast the traveller loves,' 
Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl 
The Green Sea wave, whose waters glearn, 
Limpid, as if her mines of pearl 

Were melted all to form the stream. 
And her fair islets, small and bright, 

With their green shores reflected there, 



1 " Blossom? of the sorrowful Nyctanthes give a durable 
color to silk." Hemarks on the husbandry of Bengal, p. 300. 
" Nilica is one of the Indian names of this flower." Sir W". 
Jones. " The Persians call it GnV'Carreri. 

* " In parts of Eerman, whatever dates are saaken from th 
trees by the wind, they leave for those who h*ve not miiy, or 
for travellers. 1 ' 



130 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Look like those Peri isles of light, 
That hang by spell-work in the air. 

But vainly did those glories burst 
On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first 
The bandage from her brow was taken, 
And pale and awed as those who waken 
In their dark tombs when, scowling near, 
The searchers of the grave 1 appear, 
She, shuddering, turn'd to read her fnte 

In the fierce eyes that flash'd arounu ; 
And saw those towers all desolate, 

That o'er her head terrific frown'd, 
As if defying even the smile 
Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. 
In vain, with mingled hope and fear, 
She looks for him whose voice so dear 
Had come, like music, to her ear 
Strange, mocking dream ! again 'tis fled. 
And oh ! the shoots, the pangs of dread 
That through her inmost bosom run, 

When voices from without proclaim, 
"Hafed, the Chief" and, one by one, 

The warriors shout that fearful name ! 
He comes the rock resounds his tread 
How shall she dare to lift her head, 
Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare 
Not Yeman's boldest sons can bear ? 
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, 
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, 
As in those hellish fires that light 
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night !' 
How shall she bear that voice's tone, 
At whose loud battle-cry alone 
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, 
Scatter'd, like some vast caravan, 
When, stretch'd at evening round the well, 
They hear the thirsting tiger's yell ! 

Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, 
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown, 
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow 
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now ; 
And shuddering, as she hears the tread 

Of his retiring warrior band. 
Never was pause so full of dread ; 

Till Hafed, with a trembling hand, 
Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said, 



1 " The two terrible angels, Monkir and Naklr, who are 
tailed 'The Searchers of the Grave.' " 

1 " The Arabians call the mandrake ' The Devil's Candle,' 
w account of its shining; appearance in the night." 



"Hinda!" that word was all he spoke ; 
And 'twas enough the shriek that broke 

From her full bosom told the rest 
Breathless with terror, joy, surprise, 
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes 

To hide them on her Gheber's breast 1 
'Tis he, 'tis he the man of blood, 
The fellest of the Fire-Fiend's brood. 
Hafed, the demon of the fight, 
Whose voice unnerves, whose glancei 

blight, 

Is her own lovdd Gheber, mild 
And glorious as when first he smiled 
In her lone tower, and left such beams 
Of his pure eye to light her dreams, 
That she believed her bower had given 
Rest to some habitant of heaven ! 

Moments there are, and this was one, 
Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun 
Amid the black Simoom's eclipse 

Or like those verdant spots that bloom 
Around the crater's burning lips, 

Sweetening the very edge of doom ! 
The past the future all that fate 
Can bring of dark or desperate 
Around such hours, but makes them caat 
Intenser radiance while they last ! 

Even he, this youth though dimm'd nd 

gone 

Each star of hope that cheer'd him on 
His glories lost his cause betray'd 
Iran, his dear-loved country, made 
A land of carcases and slaves, 
One dreary waste of chains and graves 
Himself but lingering, dead at heart, 

To see the last, long-struggling breath 
Of liberty's great soul depart, 

Then lay him down, and share her death- 
Even he, so sunk in wretchedness, 

With doom still darker gathering o'er him, 
Yet in this moment's pure caress, 

In the mild eyes that shone before him, 
Beaming that blest assurance, worth 
All other transports known on earth, 
That he was loved well, warmly loved 
Oh ! in this precious hour he proved 
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow 
Of rapture, kindling out of woe ; 
How exquisite one single drop 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORH. 



137 



Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top 
Of misery's cup how keenly quaff M, 
Though death must follow on the draught ! 

She, too, while gazing on those eyes 

That sink into her soul so deep, 
Forgets all fears, all miseries, 

Or feels them like the wretch in sleep, 
Whom fancy cheats into a smile, 
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while ! 
The mighty ruins where they stood, 

Upon the mount's high rocky verge, 
Lay open toward the ocean's flood, 

Where lightly o'er the illumined surge 
Many a fair bark that all the day 
Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay 
Now bounded on and gave their sails, 
Yet dripping, to the evening gales, 
Like eagles, when the storm is done, 
Spreading their wet wings in the sun. 
The beauteous clouds, though daylight's 

star 

Had sunk behind the hills of Lar, 
Were still with lingering glories bright, 
As if to grace the gorgeous west, 

The spirit of departing light 
That eve had left his sunny vest 

Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight. 
Never was scene so form'd for love ! 
Beneath them, waves of crystal move 
In silent swell heaven glows above, 
And their pure hearts, to transport given, 
Swell like the wave, and glow like heaven ! 
But ah ! too soon that dream is past 

Again, again her fear returns ; 
Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, 

More faintly the horizon burns, 
And every rosy tint that lay 
On the smooth sea has died away. 
Hastily to the darkening skies 
A glance she casts then wildly cries, 
" At night, he said and, look, 'tis near 

Fly, fly if yet thou lovest me, fly 
Soon will his murderous band be here, 

And I shall see thee bleed and die. 
Hush 1 heardst thou not the tramp of men 
Sounding from yonder fearful glen ? 
Perhaps even now they climb the wood. 

Fly, fly though still the west is bright, 
He'll come oh ! yes he wants thy blood 

I know him he'll not wait for night !" 



[n terrors even to agony 

She clings around the wondering Chief; 
" Alas, poor wilder'd maid ! to me 

Thou owest this raving trance of grief. 
Lost as I am, naught ever grew 
Beneath my shade but perish'd too 
My doom is like the Dead Sea air, 
And nothing lives that enters there ! 
Why were our barks together driven 
Beneath this morning's furious heaven ? 
Why, when I saw the prize that chance 

Had thrown into my desperate arms, 
When, casting but a single glance 

Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, 
I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er 

Thy safety through that hour's alarms) 
To meet the unmanning sight no more 
Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow ? 
Why weakly, madly met thee now ? 
Start not that noise is but the shock 

Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd 
Dread nothing here upon this rock 

We stand above the jarring world, 
Alike beyond its hope its dread 
In gloomy safety, like the dead ! 
Or, could even earth and hell unite 
In league to storm this sacred height, 
Fear nothing thou myself, to-night, 
And each o'erlooking star that dwells 
Near God will be thy sentinels ; 
And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow, 
Back to thy sire " 

" To-morrow ! no " 
The maiden scream'd " thou'lt never see 
To-morrow's sun death, death will be 
The night-cry through each reeking tower,. 
Unless we fly ay, fly this hour ! 
Thou art betray'd : some wretch who knew 
That dreadful glen's mysterious clew- 
Nay, doubt not by yon stars, 'tis true 
Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire ; 
This morning, with that smile so dire 
He wears in joy, he told me all, 
And stamp'd in triumph through our hall, 
As though thy heart already beat 
Its last life-throb beneath his feet 1 
Good heaven, how little dream'd I then 

His victim was my own loved youth ! 
Fly send let some one watch the glen 

By all my hopes of heaven, 'tis trith!" 



138 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Oh ! Bolder than the wind that freezes 

Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd, 
Is that congealing pang which seizes 

The trusting bosom when betray'd. 
He felt it deeply felt and stood, 
As if the tale had frozen his blood, 

So mazed and motionless was he ; 
Like one whom sudden spells enchant, 
Or mute marble habitant 

o. uie still halls of Ishmonie! 1 

But soon the painful chill was o'er, 
And his great soul, herself once more, 
Look'd from his brow in all the rays 
Of her best, happiest, grandest days ; 
Never, in moment most elate, 

Did that high spirit loftier rise ; 
While bright, serene, determinate, 

His looks are lifted to the skies, 
As if the signal-lights of Fate 

Were shining in those awful eyes ! 
Tis come his hour of martyrdom 
In Iran's sacred cause is come ; 
And though his life has pass'd away 
Like lightning on a stormy day, 
Yet shall Li? death-hour leave a track 

Of glory, permanent and bright, 
To which the brave of after-times, 
The suffering brave, shall long look back 

With proud regret, and by its light 

Watch through the hours of slavery's night 
For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes ! 
This rock, his monument aloft, 

Shall speak the tale to many an age ; 
And hither bards and heroes oft 

Shall come in secret pilgrimage, 
And bring their warrior sons, and tell 
The wondering boys wbere Hafed full, 
And swear them on those lone remains 
Of their lost country'g ancient fanes, 
Never while breath of life shall live 
Within them never to forgive 
The accursed race, whose ruthless chain 
Has left on Iran's neck a stain 
Blood, blood lone can cleanse again ! 

Such are the swelling thoughts that now 
Enthrone themselves on Hafed 's brow ; 



1 For an acconnt ->t Ishmonie, the petrified city in Upper 
Bypt, where it is said there are many statues of men women 
ftc., to be seen to this day, vide Perry's " View of the Levant " 



And ne'er did saint of Issa* gaze 

On the red wrath, for martyrs twined, 
More proudly than the youth surveys 

That pile, which through the gloom behind, 
Half-lighted by the altar's fire, 
Glimmers, his destined funeral pyre ! 
Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands, 

Of every wood of odorous breath, 
There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands, 

Ready to fold in radiant death 
The few still left of those who swore 
To perish there, when hope was o'er 
The few to whom that couch of flame, 
Which rescues them from bonds and shame, 
Is sweet and welcome as the bed 
For their own infant Prophet spread, 
When pitying Heaven to roses tum'd 
The death-flames that beneath him burn'd 1* 

With watchfulness the maid attends 
His rapid glance, where'er it bends 
Why shoot his eyes such awful beams '( 
What plans he now? what thinks or drea. iT 
Alas ! why stands he musing here, 
When every moment teems with fear ? 
" Hafed, my own beloved lord," 
She kneeling cries " first, last adored ! 
If in that soul thou'st ever felt 

Half what thy lips impassion'd swore, 
Here, on my knees that never knelt 

To any but their God before, 
I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly 
Now, now ere yet their blades are nigh 
Oh haste the bark that bore me hither 

Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea 
East, west, alas, I care not whither, 

So thou art safe, and I with thee ! 
Go where we will, this hand in thine, 

Those eyes before me smiling thus, 
Through good and ill, through storm 
shine, 

The world's a world of love for us ! 



* Jesna. 

' "The Ghebere say that when Abraham, their great 
>rophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the 
flame turned instantly into ' a bed of roses, where the chlJd 
weetly reposed.' " 

Of their other prophet Zoroaster, there is a story told in 
IHon Prusctui, Oral. 36, that the love of wisdom and virtus 
eadinghim to a solitary life upon a mountain, he found it one 
day all in a flame, shining with celestial fire, out of which he 
came without any harm, and instituted certain sacrifices to 
2nd, who, he declared, then appeared to him. Vid " Patric* 
on Exodns." ii. 2. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



139 



On some calm, blesse'd shore we'll dwell, 
Where 'tis no crime to love too well ; 
Where thus to worship tenderly 
An erring child of light like thee 
Will not be sin or, if it be, 
Where we may weep our faults away, 
Together kneeling, night and day, 
Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine. 
And I at any God's, for thine !" 

Wildly these passionate words she spoke 
Then hung her head, and wept for shame ; 
Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke 

With every deep-heaved sob that came. 
While he, young, warm oh ! wonder not 
If, for a moment, pride and fame, 
His oath his cause that shrine of flame, 
And Iran's self are all forgot 
For her whom at his feet he sees, 
Kneeling in speechless agonies. 
No, blame him not, if Hope a while 
Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile 
O'er hours to come o'er days and nights 
Wing'd with those precious, pure delights 
Which she, who bends all-beauteous there, 
Was born to kindle and to share ! 
A tear or two, which, as he bow'd 

To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, 
First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud 

Of softness passing o'er his soul. 
Starting, he brush'd the drops away, 
Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray ; 
Like one who, on the morn of tight, 
Shakes from his sword the dew of night, 
That had but dimni'd, not stain'd its light. 

Yet though subdued the unnerving thrill, 
Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still 

So touching in each look and tone, 
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid 
Half counted on the flight she pray'd, 

Half thought the hero's soul was grown 

As soft, as yielding as her own, 
And smiled and bless'd him, while he said, 
" Yes if there be some happier sphere, 
Whei'e fadeless truth like ours is dear ; 
If there be any land of rest 

For those who love and ne'er forget, 
Oh ! comfort thee for safe and blest 

We'll meet in that calm region yet !" 
Scarce had she time to ask her heart 



If good or ill these words impart, 
When the roused youth impatient flew 
To the tower-wall, where, high in view, 
A ponderous sea-horn 1 hung, and blew 
A signal, deep and dread as those 
The Storm-Fiend at his rising blows. 
Full well his chieftains, sworn and true 
Through life and death, that signal knew ; 
For 'twas the appointed warning-blast, 
The alarm to tell when hope was past, 
And the tremendous death-die cast ! 
And there, upon the mouldering tower, 
Has hung his sea-horn many an hour, 
Ready to sound o'er land and ssa 
That dirge-note of the brave and free. 

They came his chieftains at the call 
Came slowly round, and with them all 
Alas, how few ! the worn remains 
Of those who late o'er Herman's plains 
Went gayly prancing to the clash 

Of Moorish zel and tymbalon, 
Catching new hope from every flash 

Of their long lances in the sun 
And as their coursers charged the wind, 
And the white ox-tails stream'd behind,' 
Looking as if the steeds they rode 
Were wing'd, and every chief a god ! 
How fallen, how alter'd now ! how wan 
Each scarr'd and faded visage shone, 
As round the burning shrine they came 9 

How deadly was the glare it cast, 
As mute they paused before the flame 

To light their torches as they pass'd ! 
'Twas silence all the youth had plann'd 
The duties of his soldier-band ; 
And each determined brow declares 
His faithful chieftains well know theirs. 

But minutes speed night gems the skies 
And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes 
That look from heaven, ye may behold 
Sights that will turn your star-fires cold ! 
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, 
The maiden sees the veteran group 



i " The shell called Siiankos, common to India. Africa, and 
the Mediterranean, and Btill used In many parts as a trumpet 
for blowing alarms or giving signals : it sends forth a deef 
and hollow sound." 

1 " The finest ornament for the horse* Is made of six largt 
flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wU4 
oxen that are to be found in some places of the Irdies." 



140 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Her Utter silently prepare, 

And lay it at tier trembling feet ; 
And now the youth, with gentle care, 

Has placed her in the shelter'd seat, 
And press'd her hand that lingering press 

Of hands, that for the last time sever; 
Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness, 

When that hold breaks, is dead forever. 
And yet to her this sad caress 

Gives hope so fondly hope can err ! 
'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess 

Their happy flight's dear harbinger; 
Twas warmth assurance tenderness 

'Twas anything but leaving her. 

" Haste, haste !" she cried, " the clouds grow 

dark, 

But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark : 
And by to-morrow's dawn oh, bliss ! 

With thee upon the sunbright deep, 
Far off, I'll but remember this 

As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep ! 
And thou " But ha ! he answers not 

Good Heaven ! and does she go alone ? 
She now has reach'd that dismal spot 

Where, some hours since, his voice's tone 
Had come to soothe her fears and ills, 
Sweet as the angel IsrafilV 
When every leaf on Eden's tree 
Is trembling to his minstrelsy 
Yet now oh now, he is not nigh 

" Hafed ! my Hafed ! if it be 
Thy will, thy doom this night to die, 

Let me but stay to die with, thee, 
And I will bless thy We'd name, 
Till the last life-breath leave this frame. 
Oh ! let our lips, our cheeks be laid 
But near each other while they fade; 
Let us but mix our parting breaths, 
And I can die ten thousand deaths ! 
You too, who hurry me away 
So cruelly, one moment stay 

Oh ! stay one moment is not much 
He yet may come for him I pray 
Hafed ! dear Hafed ! All the way, 

In wild lamentings that would touch 
A heart of stone, she shriek'd his name 
To the dark woods no Hafed came ; 
No hapless pair you've looked your last ; 



' " The angel Israfll, who has the most melodious voice of 
ill God's creatures - "alt. 



Tour hearts should both have 

then : 

The dream i. o'er your doom is cast 
You'll never meet on earth again ! 

Alas for him, who hears her cries ! 

Still half-way down the steep he stands, 
Watching with flx'd and feverish eyes 

The glimmer of those burning brands 
That down the rocks, with mournful ray, 
Light all he loves on earth away ! 
Hopeless as they who, far at sea, 

By the cold moon have just consign'd 
The corse of one, loved' tenderly, 

To the bleak flood they leave behind ; 
And on the deck still lingering stay, 
And long look back, with sad delay, 
To watch the moonlight on the wave, 
That ripples o'er that cheerless grave. 

But see he starts what heard he then ? 
That dreadful shout ! across the glen 
From the land side it comes, and loud 
Rings through the chasm ; as if the crowd 
Of fearful things that haunt that dell, 
Its ghouls and dives, and shapes of hell, 
Had all in one dread howl broke out, 
So loud, so terrible that shout ! 
"They come the Moslems come!" ht 

cries, 

His proud soul mounting to his eyes, 
" Now, spirits of the brave, who roam 
Enfranchised through yon starry dome, 
Rejoice for souls of kindred fire 
Are on the wing to join your choir !" 
He said and," light as bridegrooms bound 

To their young loves, re-climb'd the steep 
And gain'd the shrine his chiefs stood 
round 

Their swords, as with instinctive leap, 
Together, at that cry accurst, 
FTad from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst. 
And hark ! again again it rings ; 
tfear and more near its echoings 
Peal through the chasm oh ! who that then 
3ad seen those listening warrior-men, 
With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame 
Turn'd on their chief could doubt the 

shame, 

The indignant shame with which they thrill 
To hear those shouts and yet stand still ? 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



141 



He read their thoughts they were his 
own 

" What ! while our arms can wield these | 

blades, 
Shall we die tamely ? die alone ? 

Without one victim to our shades, 
One Moslem heart where, bwied deep, 
The sabre from its toil may sleep ? 
No God of Iran's burning skies ! 
Thou scornst the inglorious sacrifice. 
No though of all earth's hope bereft, 
Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. 
We'll make yon valley's reeking caves 

Live in the awe-struck minds of men, 
Till tyrants shudder when their slaves 

Tell of the Ghebers' bloody glen. 
Follow, brave hearts ! this pile remains 
Our refuge still from life and chains ; 
But his the best, the holiest bed, 
Wbo sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead !" 

Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, 
W bile vigor more than human strung 
Each arm and heart. The exulting foe 
Stiil through the dark defiles be.t * 
Track'd by his torches' lurid fire, 

Wound slow, as through Golconda's vale 
The mighty serpent, in his ire, 

Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. 
No torch the Ghebers need so well 
They know each mystery of the dell, 
So oft have, in their wanderings, 
Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell, 
The very tigers from their delves 
Look out, and let them pass, as things 
Untamed and fearless like themselves ! 

There was a deep ravine that lay 

Yet darkling in the Moslem's way ; 

Fit spot to make invaders rue 

The many fallen before the few. 

The torrents from that morning's sky 

Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high, 

And, on each side, aloft and wild 

Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled. 

The guards, with which young Freedom hr.es 

The pathways to her mountain shrines. 

Here, at this pass, the scanty band 

Of Iran's last avengers stand ; 

Here wait, in silence like the dead, 

And listen for the Moslem's *,read 



So anxiously, the carrion bird 
Above them flaps his wing unheard ! 

They come that plunge into the water 
Gives signal for the work of slaughter. 
Now, Ghebers, now if e'er your blades 

Had point or prowess, prove them now 
Woe to the file that foremost wades ! 

They come a falchion greets each brow. 
And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk, 
Beneath the gory waters sunk, 
Still o'er their drowning bodies press 
New victims quick and numberless ; 
Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band, 

So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, 
But listless from each crimson hand 

The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre. 
Never was horde of tyrants met 
With bloodier welcome never yet 
To patriot vengeance hath the sword 
More terrible libations pour'd ! 
All up the dreary, long ravine, 
By the red, murky glimmer seen 
Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood 
Lie scatter d rcucd sni burn in blood. 
What ruin glares ! what carnage swims ! 
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, 
Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand, 
In that thick pool of slaughter stand ; 
Wretches who wading, half on fire 

From the toss'd brands that round them 

fly, 

'Twixt flood and flame, in shrieks expire ; 
And some who, grasp'd by those that die, 
Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er 
In their dead brethren's gushing gore ! 

But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, 
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed ! 
Countless as toward some flame at night 
The North's dark insects wing their flight, 
And quench or perish in its light, 
To this terrific spot they pour 
Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er, 
It bears aloft their slippery tread, 
And o'er the dying and -the dead, 
Tremendous causeway ! on they pass. - 
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas, 
What hope was left for you ? for you, 
Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice 
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes 



142 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Whose swords how keen, how fierce they 

knew, 

And burn with shame to find how few. 
Crush'd down by that vast multitude, 
Some found their graves where first they 

stood ; 

While some with harder struggle died, 
And still fought on by Hafed's side, 
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back 
Toward the high towers his gory track ; 
And, as a lion, swept away 

By sudden swell of Jordan's pride 
From the wild covert where he lay, 1 

Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide, 
So fought he back with fierce delay, 
And kept both foes and fate at bay ! ' 

But whither now ? their track is lost, 
Their prey escaped guide, torches gone 
By torrent-beds and labyrinths cross'd, 

The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on 
" Curse on those tardy lights that wind," 
They panting cry, " so far behind 
Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent, 
To track the way the Gheber went !" 
Vain wish confusedly along 
They rush, more desperate as more wrong : 
Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights, 
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, 
Their footing, mazed and lost, they miss, 
And down the darkling precipice 
Are dash'd into the deep abyss ; 
Or midway hang, impaled on rocks, 
A banquet, yet alive, for flocks 
Of ravening vultures, while the dell 
Re-echoes with each horrible yell. 

Those sounds the last, to vengeance dear, 

That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear, 

Now reach'd him, as aloft, alone, 
Upon the steep way breathless thrown, 
He lay beside his reeking blade, 

Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er, 
Its last blood-offering amply paid 

And Iran's self could claim no more. 
One only thought, one lingering beam 
Now broke across his dizzy dream 



"In thl thicket, upon the banks of the Jordan wild 
beasta re wont to hartor, whoee being washed ont of the 
cowt bj the oyerflewings of the rlrer gave occasion to that 

"^ '***" * 

n.' ' McnmdreWi Aleppo 



Of pain and weariness 'twas she 

His heart's pure planet, shining yet 
Above the waste of memory, 
When all life's other lights were set. 
And never to his mind before 
Her image such enchantment wore. 
It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd, 

Each fear that chill'd their loves was past. 
And not one cloud of earth remain'd 

Between him and her glory cast ; 
As if to charms, before so bright, 

New grace from other worlds was given. 
And his soul saw her by the light 

Now breaking o'er itself from heaven ! 
A voice spoke near him 'twas the tone 
Of a loved friend, the only one 
Of all his warriors left with life 
From that short night's tremendous strife 
" And must we then, my Chief, die here? 

Foes round us, and the shrine so near !" 
These words have roused the last remains 

Of life within him " What ! not yet 
Beyond the reach of Moslem chains !" 

The thought could make even Death forget 
His icy bondage with a bound 
He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, 
And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown 
Even feebler, heavier than his own, 
And up the painful pathway leads, 
Death gaining on each step he treads. 
Speed them, thou God, who heardst their 

vow ! 
They mount they bleed oh save them 

now 

The crags are red they've clamber'd o'er, 
The rock-weed's dripping with their gore 
Thy blade too, Hafed, false at length, 
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength-^- 
Haste, haste the voices of the foe 
Come near and nearer from below - 
One effort more thank Heaven ! 'tis past, 
They've gain'd the topmost steep at last. 
And now they touch the temple's walls, 

Now Hafed sees the Fire divine 
When lo ! his weak, worn comrade fall* 

Dead on the threshold of the shrine. 
" Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled ! 

And must Heave thee withering here. 
The sport of every ruffian's tread, 

The mark for every coward's spear ? 
No, by yon altar's sacred beams !" 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOO11E. 



He cries, and, with a strength that seems 
Not of this world, uplifts the frame 
Of the fallen chief, and toward the flame 
Bears him along ; with death-damp hu,nd 

The corpse upon the pyre he lays, 
Then lights the consecrated brand, 

And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze 
Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea. 
" Now, Freedom's God ! I come to Thee," 
The youth exclaims, and with a smile 
Of triumph vaulting on the pile, 
In that last effort, ere the fires 
Have h&rm'd one glorious limb, expires ! 

What shriek was that on Oman's tide ? 

It came from yonder drifting bark, 
That just has caught upon her side 

The death-light and again is dark. 
It is the boat ah, why delay'd ? 
That bears the wretched Moslem maid ; 
Confided to the watchful care 

Of a small veteran band, with whom 
Their generous Chieftain would not share 

The secret of his final doom ; 
But hoped when Hinda, safe and free, 

Was render'd to her father's eyes, 
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be 

The ransom of so dear a prize. 
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate, 
And proud to guard their beauteous freight, 
Scart e had they clear'd the surfy waves 
That foam around those frightful caves, 
When the curst war-whoops, known so well, 
Came echoing from the distant dell. 
Sudden each oar, upheld and still, 

Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, 
And, driving at the current's will, 

They rock'd along the whispering tide. 
While every eye, in mute dismay, 

Was toward that fatal mountain turii'd, 
Where the dim altar's quivering ray 

As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd. 

Oh ! 'tis not, Hinda, in the power 

Of fancy's most terrific touch 
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour 

Thy silent agony 'twas such 
As those who feel could paint too well, 
But none e'er felt and lived to tell ! 
'Twas not alone the dreary state 
Of a lorn spirit, crush'd by late, 



When, though no more remains to dread, 

The panic chill will not depart ; 
When, though the inmate Hope be dead, 

Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart. 
No pleasures, hopes, aifections gone, 
The wretch may bear, and yet live on, 
Like things within the cold rock found 
Alive when all's congeal'd around. 
But there's a blank repose in this, 
A calm stagnation that were bliss 
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain 
Now felt through all thy breast and brain 
That spasm of terror, mute, intense, 
That breathless, agonized suspense, 
From whose hot throb, whose deadly acliing 
The heart had no relief but breaking ! 

Calm is the wave heaven's brilliant lights, 

Reflected, dance beneath the prow ; 
.Tinae was when, on such lovely nights, 

She, who is there so desolate now, 
Could sit all-cheerful, though alone, 

And ask no happier joy than seeing 
That star-light o'er the waters thrown 

No joy but that to make her blest, 
And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being 

That bounds in ' youth's yet careless 

breast, 

Itself a star, not borrowing light, 
But in its own glad essence bright. 
How different now ! but, hark, again 
The yell of havoc rings brave men I 
In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand 
On the bark's edge in vain each hand 
Half draws the falchion from its sheath ; 

All's o'er in rust your blades may lie ; 
He, at whose word they've scatter'd death. 

Even now, this night, himself must die 1 
Well may ye look to yon dim tower, 

And ask, and wondering guess what meani 
The battle-cry at this dead hour 

Ah ! she could tell you she, who lean* 
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, 
With brow against the dew-cold mast 

.Too well she knows her more than life, 
Her soul's first idol, and its last, 

Lies bleeding in that murderous strife 

But see what moves upon the height J 
Some signal 1^'tis a torch's light. 
What bodes its solitary glare? 



144 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



(n gasping silence toward the shrine 
All eyes are turn'd thine, Hinda, thine 
Fix their last failing life-beams there. 

O 

Twas but a moment fierce and high 
The death-pile blazed into the sky, 
And far away o'er rock and flood 

Its melancholy radiance sent ; 
While Hafed, like a vision, stood 
Reveal'd before the burning pyre, 
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire 

Shrined in its own grand element ! 
44 'Tis he !" the shuddering maid exclaims, 

But while she speaks, he's seen no more ; 
High burst in air the funeral flames, 

And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er ! 

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave 
Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, 
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze, 
And, gazing, sunk into the wave, 
Deep, deep, where never care or pain 
Shall reach her innocent heart again ! 



Farewell farewell to thee, Araby's daugh- 
ter! 

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea;) 
No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water 

More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. 

Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee grow- 
ing, 

How light was thy heart till love's witch- 
ery came, 
Like the wind of the south' o'er a summer 

lute blowing, 

And hush'd all its music and wither'd its 
frame ! 

But long, upon Araby's green sunny high- 
lands, 
Shall maids and their lovers remember the 

doom 
Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl 

Islands, 

With naught but the sea-star* to light up 
her tomb. 

1 "This wind (the Samoor) so softens th strings of lutes 
mat they can never be tuned while it last*.' 

' The star-null. It Is circular, and at night very luminous 
naembling the fall moon surrounded by rays." 



And still, when the merry date-season is burn- 
ing, 
And calls to the palm-groves the young 

and the old, 

The happiest there, from their pastime return- 
ing 
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. 

The young village maid, when with flowers 

she dresses 
Her dark-flowing hair for some festival 

day, 
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her 

tresses, 

She mournfully turns from the mirror 
away. 

Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! forget 

thee, 
Though tyrants watch over her tears as 

they start, 
Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set 

thee, 

Embalm'd in the innermost shrine o'f her 
heart. 

Farewell ! be it ours to embellish thy pillow 
With everything beauteous that grows in 

the deep ; 
Each flower of the rock and each gem of the 

billow 

Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy 
sleep. 

Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 
That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; 
With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed 

chamber, 

We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have 
slept. 

We'll dive where the gard~~- of coral lie 

darkling, 

And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; 
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian* 

are sparkling, 

And gather their gold to strew over thy 
' bed. 



| " Some naturalists have imagined that amber IB a concr- 
tion of the tears of birds." 

" The bay Kicselarke, whict. . otherwise called the Gold 
n B*y. th sand whereof nhine* an Hr." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



145 



Farewell! farewell ! until pity's sweet 

fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the 

brave, 
They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on 

that mountain, 

They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in 
the wave. 



The singular placidity with which Fadla- 
deen had listened, during the latter part of 
this obnoxious story, surprised the Princess 
and Feramorz exceedingly ; and even in- 
clined toward him the hearts of these unsus- 
picious young persons, who little knew the 
source of, a complacency so marvellous. The 
truth was he had been organizing for the last 
few days a r^ost notable plan of persecution 
against the poet, in consequence of some 
passages that had fallen from him on the 
secon^ evening of recital, which appeared 
to thU worthy Chamberlain to contain lan- 
guage and principles for which nothing shwt 
of the summary criticism of the chabuk 1 
would be advisable. It was his intention, 
therefore, immediately on their arrival at 
Cashmere, to give information to the King 
of Bucharia of the very dangerous senti- 
ments of his minstrel ; and if, unfortunately, 
that monarch did not act with suitable vigor 
on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give 
the chabuk to Feramorz, and a place to Fad- 
ladeen,) there would be an end, he feared, of 
all legitimate government in Bucharia. He 
could not help, however, auguring better 
both for himself and the cause of potentates 
in general ; and it was the pleasure arising 
from these mingled anticipations that diffused 
such unuHual satisfaction through his fea- 
tures, and made his eyes shine out, like pop- 
pies of the desert, over the wide and lifeless 
wilderness of that countenance. 

Having decided upon the Poet's chastise- 
ment in this manner, he thought it but 
humanity to .spare him the minor tortures 
of criticism. Accordingly, when they- as- 
sembled next evening in the pavilion, and 
Lalla Rookh expected to see all the beauties 



''The Application of whips or rods." 



of her bard melt away, one by one, in the 
acidity of criticism, like pearls in the cup of 
the Egyptian Queen, he agreeably disap- 
pointed her by merely saying, with an iron- 
ical smile, that the merits of such a poem 
deserved to be tried at a much higher tribu 
nal ; and then suddenly passing off into a 
panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, 
more particularly his august and Imperial 
master Anrungzebe, the wisest and best of 
the descendants of Timur, who, among 
other great things he had done for mankind, 
had given to him, Fadladeen, the very profit- 
able posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of 
Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of 
the Girdle of Beautiful Forms, 1 and Grand 
Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram. 

They were now not far from that forbidden 
river," beyond which no pure Hindoo can 
pass; and were reposing for a time in the 
rich valley of Hussun Abdual, which had 
always been a favorite resting-place of the 
Emperors in their annual migrations to 
Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the 
Faith, Jehan-Guire, wandered with his be- 
loved and beautiful Nourmahal ; and here 
would Lalla Rookh have been happy to re- 
main forever, giving up the throne of Bucha- 
ria and the world- for Feramorz and love in 
this sweet lonely valley. The time was now 
fast approaching when she must see him no 
longer, or see him with eyes whose every 
look belonged to another ; and there was a 
melancholy preciousness in these last mo- 
ments, which made her heart cling to them 
as it would to life. During the latter part 
of his journey, indeed, she had sunk into a 
deep sadness, from which nothing but the 
presence of the young minstrel could awake 
her. Like those lamps in tombs, which only 
light up when the air is admitted, it was 
only at his approach that her eyes became 
smiling and animated. But here, in this 
dear valley, every moment was an age of 



His business was, at stated periods, to measure thr Indies 
of the Haram by a sort of regulation-girdle, whose limits it 
was not thought graceful to exceed. If any of them outgrew 
this standard of shape, they were reduced by abstinence till 
they came within its bounds. 

The Attock. 

" Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built upon the 
Nilab, which he called Attock, which means in the Indian 
language Forbidden ; for by the superstition of the Hindoo 
it was held unlawful to cross that rirer 'oic'i Hindofta,. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKK 



pleasure; she saw him all day, and was, 
therefore, all day happy, resembling, she 
ften thought, that people of Zinge, 1 who 
attribute the unfading cheerfulness they 
enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly 
over their heads. * 

The whole party, indeed, seemed in tbeir 
liveliest mood during the few days they 
passed in this delightful solitude. The 
young attendants of the Princess, who were 
here allowed a freer range than they could 
safely be indulged with in a less sequestered 
place, ran wild among the gardens and 
bounded through the meadows, lightly as 
young roes over the romantic plains of 
Tibet. While Fadladeen, besides the spirit- 
ual comfort he derived from a pilgrimage to 
the tomb of the saint from whom the valley 
is named, had opportunities of gratifying, in 
a small way, his taste for victims, by putting 
to death some hundreds of those unfortunate 
little lizards,' which all pious Mussulmans 
make it a point to kill ; taking for granted, 
that the manner in which the creature hangs 
its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude 
in which the Faithful say their prayers ! 

About two miles from Hussun Abdual 
were those Royal Gardens, which had grown 
beautiful under the care of so many lovely 
eyes, and were beautiful still, though those 
eyes could see them no longer. This place, 
with its flowers and its holy silence, inter- 
rupted only by the dipping of the wings of 
birds in its marble basins filled with the pure 
water of those hills, was to Lalla Rookh all 
that her heart could fency of fragrance, cool- 
ness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As 
the Prophet said of Damascus, " It was too 
delicious ;'" and here, in listening to the 



' " The inhabitants of this country (Zinge) are never affected 
with eftlness or melancholy: on this subject the Sheikh Aba- 
al-Khcir-Azhari baa the following distich: 

" ' Who is the man without care or sorrow (tell), that I may 
rub my hand to him. 

" ' (Behold) the Zingians, without care or sorrow, frolick- 
Bome with tipsiness and mirth. 1 " 

" The philosophers have discovered that the cause of this 
cheerfulness proceeds from the influence of the Star Soheil or 
Canopns, which rises over them every night." Heft Aklim, or 
On Seren Climates, translated by W. Ouitey, Esq. 

' The star Soheil or Canopns. 

"The lizard Stellio. The Arabs call it Ilardan. The 
Turks kill it, for they Imagine that by declining the head It 
mimics them when they say their prayers." Hassctqitist. 

* " Aa you enter at that Bazar without the jat at Damat- 



sweet voice of Feramorz, or reading in his 
eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the 
most exquisite moments of her whole life 
were passed. One evening when they had 
been talking of the Sultana Nourmahai, the 
Light of the Haram,* who had so often wan- 
dered among these flowers, and fed with her 
own hands, in those marble basins, the small 
shining fishes of which she was so fond, 
the youth, in order to delay the moment of 
separation, proposed to recite a short story, 
or rather rhapsody, of which this adored 
Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, 
to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' 
quarrel, which took place between her and 
the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at 
Cashmere ; and would remind the Princess, 
of that difference between Haroun-al^Rascliid 
and his fair mistress Marida, which wtfr so 
happily made up by the sweet strains of the 
musician Moussali.' As the storW was 
chiefly to be told in song, and Fettmorz 
had unluckily forgotten his own lute Ik the 
valley, he borrowed the vina of vLalla 
Rookh's little Persian slave, and -tlui* 
began : 



THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 

WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 
With its roses the brightest that earth 

ever gave,' 

Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear 
As the love-lighted eyes that hang over 
their wave ? 



cus, yon see the Green Mosque, so called became it hath * 
Btwple, faced with green glazed bricks, which render it vtrj 
resplendent ; it is tc"*r*d at tbe top with a pavilion of te 
same stuff. The Turks pay tjii Mosque was made in that 
place because Mohammed, being come BO far, wonld not enter 
the town, saying it was too delicious." T/itvtnot. 

Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She wu after- 
ward called Nonrjehan, or the Light of the World, 

" Haronn Al Raschld, cinquieme Khali fe des Abaseldes, 
p'etant nn jour bronille avec Maridah, qu'il aimolt cependant 
Jupqu'a 1'exces, et cette mesintelllgence ayant deja dnrf 
qnelque temps commenfa a s'ennnyer. Giafar Barmaki. sou 
favori, qui s'en appercnt, commanda a Abbas ben Ahnaf. 
excellent poete de ce temps-la, de composer qnelqueg ver* our 
le sujet de cette brouillerle. Ce poete executa 1'ordre de 
Giafar, qni fit chanter ces vers par Moussali en presence da 
Ehalife, et ce Prince fat tenement touchiS de la tendreene del 
rere du poete et de la doncenr de la voii da musicien, qu'il 
alia anssitOt tronver Maridah, et fit sa paix avec elle." 
D'Herbdot. 

1 V The rose of Cashmere, for its brilliancy and delicacy of 
odor, lias long been proverbial in the But." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



147 



Oh! to see it at sunset, when warm o'er [Shines in through the mountainous portal ' 

that opes, 

Sublime, from that valley of bliss to thi 
world ! 

But never yet, by night or day, 
In dew of spring or summer's ray, 
Did the sweet valley shine so gay 
As now it shines all love and light, 
Visions by day and feasts by night ! 
A happier smile illumes each brow, 

With quicker spread each heart uncloses. 
And all is ecstasy, for now 

The valley holds its Feast of Roses.' 
That joyous time, when pleasures pour 
Profusely round, and in their shower 
Hearts open, like the season's rose, 

The floweret of a hundred leaves, 
Expanding while the dew-fall flows, 

And every leaf its balm receives. 
'Twas when the hour of evening came 

Upon the lake, serene and cool, 
When day had hid his sultry flame 

Behind the palms of Baramoule. 
When maids began to lift their heads, 
Refresh'd from their embroider'd beds, 
Where they had slept the sun away, 
And waked to moonlight and to play. 
All were abroad the busiest hive 
On Bela's' hills is less alive 
When saffron beds are full in flower, 
Than look'd the valley in that hour. 
A thousand restless torches play'd 
Through every grove and island shade ; 
A thousand sparkling lamps were set 
On every dome and minaret ; 
And fields and pathways, far and near, 
Were lighted by a blaze so clear, 
That you could see, in wandering rourid, 
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. 
Yet did the maids and matrons leave 
Their veils at home that brilliant eve ; 
And there were glancing eyes about, 
And cheeks that would not dare shine out 
In open day, but thought they might 



the lake 
Its splendor at parting a summer eve 

throws, 
Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering 

to take 
A last look of her mirror at night ere she 

goes ! 
When the shrines through the foliage are 

gleaming half shown, 
And each hallows the hour by some rites of 

its own. 
Here the music of prayer from a minaret 

swells, 
Here the Magian his urn full of perfume 

is swinging, 

And nere,,at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 
Round/the waist of some fair Indian 

"dancer is ringing. 
Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly 

fines 
it o'er its palaces, gardens, and 
rines ; 
e waterfalls gleam like a quick fall 
' of stars, 
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle 

of Chenars 
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of 

feet 
From the cool shining walks where the 

young people meet. 
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight 

awakes 
A new wonder each minute as slowly it 

breaks, 
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every 

one 
Out of darkness, as they were just born of 

the sun. 
When the spirit of fragrance is up with the 

day, 
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing 

away; 
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like 

a lover 
The young aspen trees till they tremble all 

over. 
When the East is as warm as the light of 

first hopes, 
Aaid day with its banner of radiance un- 

furl'd, 



i " The Tnckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Mohnm- 
medaiiH on this hill, forma one side of a grand portal to tn 
lake." 

" The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of theli 
remaining in bloom." 

Mentioned in the Toozek Jchangetry, or " Memoir* of 
Jehan-Guire," where there is an aeconnt of the rtefe otaffiom 
flowers about Cashmere. 



148 



Look lovely then, because 'twas night ! 
And all were free, and wandering, 

And all exclaim'd to all they met 
That never did the summer bring 

So gay a Feast of Roses yet ; 
The moon had never shed a light 

So clear as that which bless'd them there ; 
The roses ne'er shone half so bright, 

Nor they themselves look'd half so fair. 

And what a wilderness of flowers ! 
It seein'd as though from all the bowers 
And fairest fields of all the year, 
The mingled spoil were scatter'd here. 
The lake, too, like a garden breathes, 

With the rich buds that o'er it lie, 
As if a shower of fairy wreathes 

Had fallen upon it from the sky ! 
And then the sounds of joy, the beat 
Of tabors and of dancing feet ; 
The minaret-crier's chant of glee 
Sung from his lighted gallery, 1 
And answer'd by a ziraleet 
From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet ; 
The merry laughter, echoing 
From gardens where the silken swing 1 
Wafts some delighted girl above 
The top leaves of the orange grove ; 
Or, from those infant groups at play 
Among the tents that line the way, 
Flinging, unawed by slave or mother, 
Iiandfuls of roses at each other ! 

And the sounds from the lake, the low 

whisp'ring in boats, 
As they shoot through the moonlight ; 

the dipping of oars, 
And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere 

floats, 
Through the groves, round the islands, as 

if all the shores 
Like those of Kathay utter'd music, and gave 



1 " It It the custom among the women to employ the Maa- 
Eeen to chant from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which 
oil that occasion U Illuminated, and the women assembled at 
the house respond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous 
etorui." 

1 "The swing is a favorite pastime in the East, u promot- 
ing a circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry 
dimates." Richardson. 

" Tie swtngi are adorned with festooni. Thit. pastime It 
accompanied with music of voices and of instruments, hired 
by the masters of the swings." Tlutmot. 



An answer in song to the kiss of each wave 1* 
But the gentlest of all are those sounds. .11 

of feeling, 
That soft from the lute of some lover are 

stealing, 

Some lover who knows all the heart-touch- 
ing power 

Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. 
Oh ! best of delights, as it everywhere is, 
To be near the loved one, what a rapture 

is his, 
Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly 

may glide 
O'er the Lake of Cashmere with that one by 

his side ! 

If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, 
Think, think what a heaven she must make 

of Cashmere 1 

So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar,' 
When from power and pomp and the trophies 

of war 

He flew to that valley, forgetting them all 
With the Light of the Haram, his young 

Nourmahal. 
When free and uncrown'd as the conqueror 

roved 

By the banks of that lake, with his only be- 
loved, 
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfuli/ 

snatch 
From the hedges, a glory his crown could 

not match, 
And preferr'd in his heart the least ringlet 

that curl'd 
Down her exquisite neck to the throne of tie 

world ! 

There's a beauty, forever unchangingly 
bright, 

Like the long sunny lapse of a summer- 
day's light, 

Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made 
tender, 

Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splen- 
dor. 



" The ancleuts baring remarked that a current of water 
made some of the stones cear its banks send forth a sound, 
:hey detached some of them, and being charmed with the d- 
ightfnl sound they emitted, constructed King or nntical 1 
strameiits of them." 

* Jehan-Ouire, the son of the Great Acbar. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



149 



This was not the beauty oh ! nothing like 

this, 
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic 

of bliss, 
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which 

plays 
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy 

days, 
Now here and now there, giving warmth as 

it flies 
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek 

to the eyes, 
Now melting in mist and now breaking in 

gleams, 
Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in 

his dreams ! 

When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace, 
That charm of all others, was born with her 

face ; 
And when angry for even in the tranquil- 

lest climes 

Light breezes "will ruffle the flowers some- 
times 
The short, passing anger but seem'd to 

awaken 
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest 

when shaken. 

If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye 
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, 
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy 

revealings 
From innermost shrines, came the light of 

her feelings ! 
Then her mirth oh ! 'twas sportive as ever 

took wing 

From the heart with a burst like the wild- 
bird in spring ; 

Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, 
Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their 

cages. 1 
While her laugh, full of life, without any 

control 
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from 

her soul ; 
And where it most sparkled no glance could 

discover, 
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all 

over, 



Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, 
When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in 

the sun. 
Such, such were the peerless enchantments, 

that gave 
Nourmaha! the proud Lord of the East for 

her slave ; 
And though bright was his Haram, a living 

parterre 

Of the flowers* of this planet though treas- 
ures were there, 
For which Solomon's self might have given 

all the store 
That the navy from Ophir e'er wing'd to his 

shore, 
Yet dim before her were the smiles of them 

all, 
And the Light of J is Haram was young 

Nourmahal ! 

But where is she now, this night of joy, 
When bliss is every heart's employ ? 

When all around her is so bright, 
So like the visions of a trance, 
That one might think, who came by chance 

Into the vale this happy night, 

He saw that City of Delight* 
In Fairy-laud, whose streets and towers 
Are made of gems and light and flowers ! 
Where is the loved Sultana ? where, 
When mirth brings out the young and fair, 
Does she, the fairest, hide her brow, 
In melancholy stillness now ? 

Alas how light a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love ! 
Hearts that the world in vain has tried, 
And sorrow but more closely tied; 
That stood the storm when waves were rough, 
Yet in a sunny hour fall off, 
Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
When heaven was all tranquillity i 
| A something light as air a look, 

A word unkind or wrongly taken 
Oh ! love that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this has shaken. 
And ruder words will soon rush in 
To spread the breach that words begin; 



1 In the wars of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the 
former took the latter prisoners, " they shnt them up In iron 
-Kes, nd hang them on the highest trees." 



1 In the Malay language the same -vord f feiiifles women i 
flowers. 
> The capital of Shadnklam. 



150 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And eyes forget the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship's smiling day ; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
A tenderness round all they said ; 
Till fast declining, one by one, 
The sweetnesses of love are gone, 
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken clouds, or like the stream, 
That smiling left the mountain's brow, 

As though its waters ne'er could sever, 
Yet, ere it reach the plain below, 

Breaks into floods that part forever 

Oh, you that have the charge of love, 

Keep him in rosy bondage bound, 
As in the fields of bliss above 

He sits, with flowerets fetter'd round; 
Loose not a tie that round him clings, 
Nor ever let him use his wings ; 
For even an hour, a minute's flight, 
Will rob the plumes of half their light. 
Like that celestial bird whose nest 

Is found beneath far Eastern skies 
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, 

Lose all their gWy when he flies! 1 

Some difference, of this dangerous kind, 
By which, though light, the links that bind 
The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; 
Some shadow in love's summer heaven, 
Which, though a fleecy speck at first, 
May yet in awful thunder burst ; 
Such cloud it is <that now hangs over 
The heart of the imperial lover, 
And far hath banish'd from his sight 
His Nourmahal, his Haram's light ! 
Hence is it, on this happy night, 
When pleasure through the fields and groves 
Has let loose all her world of loves, 
And every heart has found its own, 
He wanders, joyless and alone, 
And weary as that bird of Thrace, 
Whose pinion knows no resting-place. 
In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes 
This Eden of the earth supplies 

Come crowding round the cheeks are 

pale, 
The eyes are dim : though rich the spot 



i " Among the birds of Tonquin IB a species of goldfinch 
which tings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. 
Iti wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beauti- 
ml colors, but when it flies they lose all their splendor." 



With every flower this earth hath got, 

What is it to the nightingale 
If there bis darling rose is not?* 
In vain the valley's smiling throng 
Worship him, as he moves along ; 
He heeds them not one smile of hers 
Is worth a world of worshippers. 
They but the star's adorers are, 
She is the heaven that lights the star ! 
Hence is it too that Nourmahal, 

Amid the luxuries of this hour, 
Far from the joyous festival, 

Sits in her own sequester'd bower, 
With no one near to soothe or aid, 
But that inspired and wondrous maid, 
Namouna, the enchantress ; one 
O'er whom his race the golden sun 
For unremember'd years has run, 
Yet never saw her blooming brow 
Younger or fairer than 'tis now. 
Nay, rather, as the west-wind's sigh 
Freshens the flower it passes by, 
Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er 
To leave her lovelier than before. 
Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, 
And when, as oft, she spoke or sung 
Of other worlds, there came a light 
From her dark eyes so strangely bright, 
That all believed nor man nor earth 
Were conscious of Namouna's birth ! 

All spells and talismans she knew, 

From the great Mantra,' which around 
The air's sublimer spirits drew, 

To the gold gems 4 of Afric, bound 
Upon the wandering Arab's arm, 
To keep him from the Siltim's* harm. 
And she had pledged her powerful art, 
Pledged it with all the zeal and heart 
Of one who knew, though high her sphere, 
What 'twas to lose a love so dear, 
To find some spell that should recall 
Her Selim's* smile to Nourmahal ! 



" Yon may place a hundred handfuls of fragrant herbs and 
flowers before the nightingale, yet be wishes not, in his con- 
stant heart, for more than the sweet breath of bis beloved 
rose." Jami. 

' " He is said to hare found the great Mantra spell or talis- 
man, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of 
all denominations." 

" The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arab! 
'El Herrez,' from the supposed charm they contain." 

"A demon supposed to haunt woods, &c., in a humai 
shape." 

The name of Jehan-Guire before his accession to ! he throne 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



151 



'Twas midnight through the lattice, 

wreathed 

With woodbine, many a perfume breathed 
From plants that wake when others sleep, 
From timid jasmine buds that keep 
Their odor to themselves all day, 
But, when the sunlight dies away, 
Let the delicious secret out 
To every breeze that roams about ; 
When thus Namouna : " 'Tis the hour 
That scatters spells on herb and flower ; 
And garlands might be gather'd now, 
That, twined around the sleeper's brow, 
Would make him dream of such delights, 
Such miracles and dazzling sights 
As genii of the sun behold, 
At evening, from their tents of gold 
Upon the horizon where they play 
Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray, 
Their sunny mansions melt away ! 
Now, too, a chaplet might be wreathed 
Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed, 
Which, worn by her whose love has stray'd, 

Mignt bring some Peri from the skies, 
Some sprite, whose very soul is made 

Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs, 
And who might tell " 

" For me, for me," 
Cried Nourmahal impatiently, 
" Oh 1 twine that wreath for me to-night." 
Then, rapidly, with foot as light 
As the young musk-roes, out' she flew 
To cull each shining leaf that grew 
15eneath the moonlight's hallowing beams 
P'or this enchanted wreath of dreams. 
Anemones and seas of gold, 1 

And new-blown lilies of the river, 
And those sweet flowerets that unfold 

Their buds on Camadeva's quiver ;* 
The tube-rose, with her silvery light, 

That in the gardens of Malay 
Is call'd the Mistress of the Night,' 
So like a bride, scented and bright, 

She comes out when the sun's away. 
Amaranths, such as crown the maids 



" llemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the 

brightest gold color " 
" The delicious odor of the blossoms of this tree justly 

ffive* it a place in trie ouiverof Ctunadeva, or the God of Love.'* 
" The Malayans siyie the tube-rose (Polianthei tuixrosa) 
Bandal Malain.' or the Mistress of the Night." 



That wander through Zamara's shades ;' 
And the white moon-flower, as it shows 
On Serendib's high crags to those 
Who near the isle at evening sail, 
Scenting her clove-trees in the gale ; 
In short, all flowerets and all plants, 

From the divine Amrita tree," 
That blesses heaven's inhabitants 

With fruits of immortality, 
Down to the basil* tuft, that waves 
Its fragrant blossom over graves,* 

And to the humble rosemary, 
Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed 
To scent the desert 1 and the dead, 
All in that garden bloom, and all 
Are gather'd by young Nouwnahal, 
Who heaps her baskets with the flowers 

And leaves, till they can hold no more ; 
Then to Namouna flies, and showers 

Upon her lap the shining store. 

With what delight the enchantress views 

So many buds, bathed with the dews 

And beams of that bless'd hour ! her giaitOt 

Spoke something past all mortal pleastfrea, 
As, in a kind of holy trance, 

She hung above those fragrant treasures, 
Bending to drink their balmy airs, 
As if she mix'd her soul with theirs. 
And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed 
From flowers and scented flame that fed 
Her charmed life for none had e v er 
Beheld her taste of mortal fare, 
Nor ever in aught earthly dip, 
But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. 
Fill'd with the cool inspiring smell, 
The enchantress now begins her spell, 
Thus singing as she winds and weaves 
In mystic form the glittering leaves : 



" In Zamara (Sumatra) they lead an idle life, passing th 
day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of 
flowers, among which the globe amaranthus mostly prevails.** 

" The largest and richest sort (of the ' Jambu' or ROM 
Apple) is called ' Amrita,' or immortal, and the mythologistt 
of Tibet apply the same word to the celestial tree bearing am- 
brosial fruit." 

Sweet basil, called 'Rayhan' in Persia, and generally 
found in churchyards. 

' " The women in Egypt go, at least two days in the week, 
to pray and weep at the sepulchres of the dead ; and the cus- 
tom then is to throw upon the tombs a sort of herb, which 
the Arabs call HAan, and which in our sweet baell." MaiiUt, 
Lett. 10. 

" In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavcndnj 
Mid rosemary." 



152 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



' I know where the winged visions dwell 

That around the night-bed play ; 
I know each herb and floweret's bell, 
Where they hide their wings by day. 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 

" The image of love that nightly flies 

To visit the bashful maid, 
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs 

Its soul, like her, in .the shade. 
The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour 

That alights on misery's brow, 
Springs out of the silvery almond-flower, 

That blooms on a leafless bough. 1 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 

" The visions that oft to worldly eyes 

The glitter of mines unfold, 
Inhabit the mountain-herb,' that dyes 

The tooth of the fawn like gold. 1 
The phantom shapes oh, touch not them 

That appal the murderer's sight, 
Lurk \n the fleshly mandrake's stem, 

That shrieks when torn at night ! 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 

" The dream of the injured, patient mind, 

That smiles at the wrongs of men, 
IB found in the bruised and wounded rind 
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then ! 
Then hasten we, makl, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade." 



1 "The lmond-tree, with whit t flowers, blossoms on the 
bare branches." 

1 An herb on Mount Libannn, which is said to communicate 
yellow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other ani- 
mals that graze upon it. 

Niebuhr thinke this may be the herb which the Eastern 
alchymists look to as a means of making gold. " Most of 
those alchymical enthusiasts think themselves sure of snc- 
ees if tksjr could but find out the herb which gilds the teeth 
and gives a yellow color to the flesh of the sheep that eat it." 

Father Jerome Dandini, however, asserts that the teeth of 
the goats at Mount Libanns are of a stiver color ; and adds, 
' this confirms me that which I observed in Candia ; to wit, 
that the animals that live on Mount Ida eat a certain herb, 
which renders their teeth of a golden color; which, according 
to my judgment, cannot otherwise proceed than from the 



No sooner was the flowery crown 

Placed on her head than sleep came down, 

Gently as nights of summer fall, 

Upon the lids of Nourmahal; 

And suddenly a tuneful breeze, 

As full of small, rich harmonies 

As ever wind that o'er the tents 

Of Azab 4 blew was full of scents, 

Steals on her ear and floats and swells, 

Like the iirst air of morning creeping 
Into those wreathy, Red Sea shells, 

Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping ;' 
And now a spirit, form'd, 'twould seem, 

Of music and of light, so fair, 
So brilliantly his features beam, 

And such a sound is in the air 
Of sweetness when he waves his wings, 
Hovers around her, and thus sings : 

" From Chindara's* warbling fount I come, 

Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell ; 
From Chindara's fount, my fairy home, 

Where in music, morn and night, I dwell. 
Where lutes in the air are heard about, 

And voices are singing the whole day long. 
And every sigh the heart breathes out 

Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song ! 
Hither I come 
From my fairy home, 

And if there's a magic in music's strain, 
I swear by the breath 
Of that moonlight wreath 

Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 
For mine is the lay that lightly floats, 
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, 
That fall as soft as snow on the sea, 
And melt in the heart as instantly 1 
And the passionate strain that, deeply going, 

Refines the bosom it trembles through, 
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, 

Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too ! 

" Mine is the charm whose mystic sway 
The spirits of past delight obey ; 
Let but the tuneful talisman sound, 



mines which are under ground." .Dandini, Voyaqt to Mount 
LUtamu. 

4 The myrrh country. 

' This idea was not unknown to the Greeks, who repre- 
sent the young Neriteg, one of the Cupids, as living in hcllt 
on the shores of the Bed Sea." 

"A fabulous fountain, wliere Instrument! are laid to b 
constantly playing." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



153 



And they come, like genii, hovering round. 
And mine is the gentle song that bears 

From soul to soul the wishes of love, 
As a bird that wafts through genial airs 

The cinnamon seed from grove to grove. 1 

" 'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure 
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ;' 
When memory links the tone that is gone 

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear ; 
And hope from a heavenly note flies on 

To a note more heavenly still that is near ! 

" The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, 
Can as downy soft and as yielding be 
As his own white plume, that high amid death 
Through the field has shone yet moves with 

a breath. 
And oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten 

When music has reach'd her inward soul, 
Like the silent stars that wink and listen 
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll 1 
So, hither I come 
From my fairy home, 
And if there's a magic in music's strain, 
I swear by the breath 
Of that moonlight wreath, 
Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again." 

Tis dawn at least that early dawn' 
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn, 
As if the morn had waked, and then 
Shut close her lids of light again. 



1 " The Pompadour pigeon, by carrying the trait of the cin- 
namon to different places, is a great disseminator of this valu- 
able tree." 

"Whenever onr pleasure arises from a succession of 
lonncls, it is a perception of complicated nature, made up of a 
imsaUm of the present sound or note, and an Idea or remem- 
brance of the foregoing, while their mixture and concurrence 
produce such a mysterious delight as neither could have pro- 
dnced alone. And it Is often heightened by an anticipation 
of the succeeding notes. Thus sense, memory, and imagina- 
tion are conjnrctively employed." Gerard on Taste. 

Madame de StaSl accounts npon the same principle for the 
gratification we derive from rhyme : " Elle est 1'image de 
Tespfirance et du souvenir. Un son nous fait desirercelui qul 
dolt lui rpondre, et qnand le second retentit, 11 nous rappelle 
celnl qne vient de nous e'chapper." 

" The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and 
the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real daybreak. They ac- 
count for this phenomenon in a most whimsical manner. 
They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf 
(Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that 
mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause 
of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of day- 
break. Af it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, 
antll the sun rises above the mountain and brings with it the 
Soobhi Sadig. or real morning." Scott Waring. 



And Nourmahal is up, and trying 

The wonders of her lute, whose strings 
Oh, bliss ! now murmur like the sighing 

From that ambrosial spirit's wings ! 
And then, her voice 'tis more than human 

Never, till now, had it been given 
To lips of any mortal woman 

To utter notes so fresh from heaven ; 
Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, 

When angel sighs are most divine. 
" Oh ! let it last till night," she cries, 

And he is more than ever mine." 
And hourly she renews the lay, 

So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness 
Should, ere the evening, fade away,~- 

For things so heavenly have such fleetnesa I 
But, far from fading, it but grows 
Richer, diviner as it flows ; 
Till rapt she dwells on every string, 

And pours again each sound along, 
Like echo lost and languishing 

In love with her own wondrous song. 

That evening (trusting that his soul 

Might be from haunting love released 
By mirth, by music, and the bowl) 

The imperial Selim held a feast 
In his magnificent Shalimar ;' 
In whose saloons, when the first star 
Of evening o'er the waters trembled, 
The valley's loveliest all assembled, 
All the bright creatures that, like dreams, 
Glide through its foliage, and drink beams 
Of beauty from its founts and streams.' 
And all those wandering minstrel-maids, 
Who leave how can they leave? the 

shades 
Of that dear valley, and are found 

Singing in gardens of the Soutn 
Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound 

As from a young Cashmerian's mouth. 



" In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one 
of the Delhi emperors, I believe Shah Jehan, constructed a 
spacious garden called the Shalimar, which is abundantly 
stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Some of the riv- 
ulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the back 
of the garden, and, flowing through its centre, or occasionally 
thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the chief beau- 
ty of the Shalimar. To decorate this spot the Mogul princss 
of India have displayed an equal magnificence and tat; es- 
pecially Jehan Gheer, who, with the enchanting Noor Mahl, 
made Kashmire his usual Ksidence during the. summer 
months." Forater. 

" It is supposed that th Cashmeriani are indebted tot 
their beauty to their waters/ 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



There, too, the Haram's inmates smile ; 

Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, 
And from the Garden of the Nile, 

Delicate as the roses there ;' 
Daughters of love from Cyprus rocks, 
With Paphian diamonds in their locks ;' 
Like Peri forms, such as there are 
On the gold meads of Candahar ;' 
And they, before whose sleepy eyes, 

In their own bright Kathaian bowers, 
Sparkle such rainbow butterflies,' 

That they might fancy the rich flowers 
That round them in the sup lay sighing 
Had been by magic all set flying ! 

Everything young, everything fair 
From East and West is blushing there, 
Except except Nourmahal ! 
Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, 
The one, whose smile shone out alone, 
Amidst a world the only one ! 
Whose light, among so many lights, 
Was like that star, on starry nights, 
The seaman singles from the sky, 
To- steer his bark forever by ! 
Thou wert not there so Selim thought, 

And everything seem'd drear without thee ; 
But ah ! thou wert, thou wert and brought 

Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. 
Mingling unnoticed with a band 
Of lutanists from many a land, 
And veil'd by such a mask as shades 
The features of young Arab maids,' 
A mask that leaves but one eye free, 
To do its best in witchery, 
She roved, with beating heart, around, 

And waited, trembling, for the minute 
When she might try if still the sound 

Of her loved lute had magic in it. 

The board was spread with fruits and wine, 
With grapes of gold, like those that shine 

1 " The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile, (at- 
tached to the Emperor of Morocco's palace,) are unequalled, 
md mattresses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to 
recline upon." 

' " On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern 
which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account 
of its brilliancy, it has been tailed the Paphian diamond." 

: ' There is a part of Candahar called Peria, or Fairy-Land." 
4 " Butterflies, which are called, in the Chinese language 
Plying Leaves. 1 " 

" The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps, 
pivttily ordered." Camrl. Nlebnhr mentions their showing 
ut on* tja in conversation. 



On Casbin's hills ; pomegranates full 

Of melting sweetness, and the pears 
And sunniest apples that Cabul 

In all its thousand gardens bears. 
Plantains, the golden and the green, 
Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen ;* 
Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts 

From the far groves of Samarcand, 
And Basra dates, and apricots. 

Seed of the sun,* from Iran's land ; 
With rich conserve of Visna cherries," 
Of orange flowers, and of those berries 
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles 
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells. 
All these in richest vases smile, 

In baskets of pure sandal- wood, 
And urns of porcelain from that isle' 

Sunk underneath the Indian flood, 
Whence oft the lucky diver brings 
Vases to grace the halls of kings. 
Wines too, of every clime and hue, 
Around their liquid lustre threw ; 
Amber Rosolli, the bright dew 
From vineyards of the Green Sea gusliiug ,' ' 
And Shiraz wine, that richly ran 

As if that jewel, large and rare, 
The ruby for which Kublai-Khan 
Ofier'd a city's wealth," was blushing, 

Melted within the goblets there 1 

And amply Selim quads of each, 

And seems resolved the floods shall reach 

His inward heart, shedding around 

A genial deluge as they run, 
That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd, 

For Love to rest his wings upon. 
He little knew how blest the boy 

Can float upon a goblet's streams, 
Lighting them with his smile of joy; 

As bards have seen him in their dreams 



"The mangnsteen, the most delicate fruit In the world; 
the pride of the Malay Islands." 

"A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persiani 
Tokm-ek-shems,' signifying sun's seed." 

" Sweetmeats in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leave in 
conserve, with lemon or Visna cherry, orange flowers," Ac. 

" Manri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to 
lave been sunk in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. 

The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring op from it 
are sold at an immense price in China and Japan." 

i The white wine of Eishma. 

11 " The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest rnby 
that was ever seen. Knblai-Khan sent and offered the vlu 
of a city for it, but the king answered he would not give It for 
the treasure of the world." Marco Polo. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



155 



Down tbe blue Ganges laughing glide 

Upon a rosy lotus wreath, 1 
Catching new lustre from the tide 

That with his image shone beneath. 

But what are cups without the aid 

Of song to speed them as they flow ? 
And see a lovely Georgian maid, 

With all the bloom, the freshen'd glow 
Of her own country maidens' looks, 
When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks :' 
And with an eye whose restless ray, 

Full, floating, dark oh he, who knows 
Hia heart is weak, of Heaven should pray 

To guard him from such eyes as those ! 
With a voluptuous wildness flings 
Her snowy hand across the strings 
Of a syrinda," and thus sings : 

" Come hither, come hither by night and 

by day 
We linger in pleasures that never are 

gone; 
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies 

away, 

Another as sweet and as shining comes on. 
And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives 

birth 
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in 

bliss; 

And oh 1 if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 

Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant 

their sigh 
As the flower of the Amra just oped by a 

bee; 
&.nd precious their tears as that rain from 

the sky, 4 
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the 

sea. 
Oh ! think what the kiss and the smile must 

be woith, 
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect 

in bliss ; 

And own, if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 



' "The Indians feign that Cupid was first seen floating 
Sown the Ganges on the Nymphjea Nelumbo." 

* " Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths." 

u The Indian eyrinda or guitar." 

" The Niean, or drops of spring rani, which ttey believe 
to produce pearls if they fall into hells." 



" Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by 

love, 
Could draw down those angels of old from 

their sphere, 
Who for wine of this earth left the fountain* 

above, 
And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we 

have here. 
And, bless'd with the odor our goblets give 

forth, 
What spirit the sweets of this Eden would 

miss? 

For oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 

It is this, it is this." * 

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, 

When the same measure, sound for 

sound, 
Was caught up by another lute, 

And so divinely breathed around, 
They all stood hush'd, and wondering, 

And turn'd and look'd into the air, 
As if they thought to see the wing 

Of Israfil," the angel, there ; 
So powerfully on every soul 
That new enchanted measure stole. 
While now a voice, sweet as the note 
Of the charm'd lute was heard to float 
Along its chords, and so entwine 

Its sound with theirs, that none knew 

whether 
The voice or lute was most divine, 

So wondrously they went together: 

" There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel 

has told, 
When two that are link'd in one heavenly 

tie, 
With heart never changing and brow never 

cold, 
Love on through' all ills, and love on till 

they die ! 

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 
Whole ages of heartless and wandering 

bliss ; 

And oh ! if there be an Elysium on eatth, 
It is this, it is this." 



" Aronnd the exterior of the Dewan Khass (a building of 
Shah Allum's) in the cornice are the following lines in letten 
of gold upon a ground of white marble' If there b a para- 
dise upon earth, it is this, it is this.' "Franklin. 

* " The Angel of Music, who has the most melodious Tnic* 
of all God's creatures." Sale. 



156 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, 
But that deep magic in the chords 
And in the lips that gave such power 
As music knew not till that hour. 
At once a hundred voices said, 
" It is the mask'd Arabian maid !" 
While Selim, who had felt the same 
Deepest of any, and had lain 
Some minutes rapt, as in a trance, 

After the fairy sounds were o'er, 
Too inly touch'd for utterance, 

Now motion'd with his hand for more : 

" Fly to the desert, fly with me, 
Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt 
Of tents with love or thrones without ? 

" Our rocks are rough, but smiling there 
The acacia waves her yellow hair, 
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
For flowering in a wilderness. 

" Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
The silvery-footed antelope 
As gracefully and gayly springs 
As o'er the* marble courts of kings. 

" Then come thy Arab maid will be 
The loved and lone acacia tree, 
The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
With their light sound thy loneliness. 

" Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart 
An instant sunshine through the heart, 
As if the soul that minute caught 
Some treasure it through life had sought ; 

" As if the very lips and eyes 
Predestined to have all our sighs, 
And never be forgot again, 
Sparkled and spoke before as then ! 

" So came thy every glance and tone, 
When first on me they breathed and shone ; 
New, as if brought from other spheres, 
jfet welcome as if loved for years ! 

u Then fly with me, if thou hast known 
No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
Should ever in thy heart be worn. 



" Come, if the love thou hast for me 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, 
Fresh as the fountain under ground, 
When first 'tis by the lapwing found.' 

" But if for me thou dost forsake 
Some other maid, and rudely break 
Her worshipp'd image from its base, 
To give to me the ruin'd place ; 

" Then, fare-thee-well ! I'd rather maka 
My bower upon some icy lake 
When thawing suns begin to shine, 
Than trust to love so false as thine !" 

There was a pathos in this lay, 

That, even without enchantment's art, 
Would instantly have found its way 

Deep into Selim's burning heart; 
But breathing, as it did, a tone 
To earthly lutes and lips unknown ; 
With every chord fresh from the touch 
Of music's spirit, 'twas too much ! 
Starting, he dash'd away the cup, 

Which, all the time of this sweet air, 
Bis hand had held, untasted, up, 

As if 'twere fix'd by magic there, 
And naming her, so long unnamed, 
So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd, 
ONourmahal! ONourmahal! 

Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, 
[ could forget forgive thee all,' 

And never leave those eyes again." 

The mask is off the charm is wrought 
And Selim to his heart has caught, 

[n blushes, more than ever bright, 
His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light ! 
And well do vanish'd frowns enhance 

The charm of every brighten'd glance ; 
And dearer seems each dawning smile 
For having lost its light a while ; 
And, happier now for all her sighs, 
As on his arm her head reposes, 
She whispers him, with laughing eyes, 
" Remember, love, the Feast of Roses !" 

Fadladeen, at the conclusion of this light 
hapsody, took occasion to sum up his opin- 



1 The Hndhtid, or lapwing, Is mpposed to have the powei 
f discovering water under ground. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



157 



ion of the young Cashmerian's poetry, of 
which, he trusted, they had that evening 
beard the last. Having recapitulated the 
epithets " frivolous" " inharmonious" 
"nonsensical," he proceeded to say that, 
viewing it in the most favorable light, it re- 
eembled one of those Maldivian boats, to 
which the princess had alluded in the relation 
of her dream (p. 130) a slight, gilded thing, 
sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and 
with nothing but vapid sweets and faded 
flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of 
flowers and birds which this poet had ready 
on all occasions, not to mention dews, gems, 
<fcc., was a most oppressive kind of opulence 
to his hearers ; and had the unlucky efiect 
of giving to his style all the glitter of the 
flower-garden without its method, and all 
the flutter of the aviary without its song. 
In addition to this, he chose his subjects 
badly, and was always most inspired by the 
worst part of them. The charms of pagan- 
ism, the merits of rebellion, these were the 
themes honored with his particular enthusi- 
asm; and, in the poem just recited, one of 
his most palatable passages was in praise of 
that beverage of the Unfaithful wine; 
" being, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a 
emile, as conscious of his own character in 
thr Haram on. this point, " one of those 
bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination 
to the grape, like that painted porcelain, 1 so 
curious and so rare, whose images are only 
visible when liquor is poured into it." Upon 
the whole it was his opinion, from the speci- 
mens which they had heard, and which, he 
begged to say, were the most tiresome part 
of the journey, that whatever other merits 
this well-dressed young gentleman might 
possess poetry was by no means his proper 
avocation: "and indeed," concluded the 
critic, " from his fondness for flowers and for 
birds, I would venture to suggest that a 
florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suit- 
able calling for him than a poet." 

They had now begun to ascend those bar 
ren mountains which separate Cashmere 



1 " The Chinese bad formerly the rt of painting on the 
ides of porcelain vessels fish and other animals, which were 
only perceptible when the vessel was fall of some liquor 
They re every now and then trying to recover the art of thi 
jnaglc*! painting, but to no purpose." Dunn. 



rom the rest of India; and, as the heats 
vere intolerable, and the time of their en- 
campments limited to the few hours neces- 

y for refreshment and repose, there was an 
end to all their delightful evenings, and hall a 
lookh sav^ no more of Fwamorz. She now 
'elt that her- short dream of happiness was 
over, and that she had nothing but the recol- 
ection of its few blissful hours, like the one 
draught of sweet water that serves the camel 
across the wilderness, to be her heart's re- 
Teshmont during the dreary waste of life 
that was before her. The blight that had 
fallen upon her spirits soon found its way to 
her cheek ; and her ladies saw with regret 
though not without some suspicion of the 
iause that the beauty of their mistress, of 
which they were almost as proud as of their 
own, was fast vanishing away at the very 
moment of all when she had most need of it. 
What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, 
instead of the lively and beautiful Lalla 
Rookh, whom the poets of Delhi had de- 
scribed as more perfect than the divinest 
images in the House of Azor, 1 he should re 
ceive a pale and in animate* victim, upon 
whose cheek neither health nor pleasure 
bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled, 
to hide himself in her heart ! 

If anything could have charmed away the 
melancholy of her spirits, it would have been 
the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that 
valley, which the Persians so justly called 
the " Unequalled." But neither the coolness 
of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling 
up those bare and burning mountains ; neither 
the splendor of the minarets and pagodas, 
that shone out from the depths of its woods, 
nor the grottos, hermitages, and miraculous 
fountains,' which make every spot of that 
region holy ground; neither the countless 
waterfalls that rush into the valley from all 
those high and romantic mountains that en- 
circle it, nor the fair city on the lake, whose 



An eminent carver of idols, eald in the Koran to be father 
to Abraham. "I have such a lovely idol ai ii not to be met 
with In the house of Azor." Hafx. 

i " The pardonable superstition of the sequestered inhabit- 
ants has multiplied the places of worship of Mahadeo, of 
Beschan, and of Brama. All Cashmere 1 holy laud, and mV 
racnlons fountains abound." 3/nJor SiniuCt Memoin aft 
M"~ nf IJindostan. 



158 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



houses, roofed with flowers, 1 appeared at a 
distance like one vast and variegated par- 
terre : not all these wonders and glories of 
the most lovely country under the sun could 
steal her heart for a minute from those sad 
thoughts, which but darkened and "grew bit- 
terer every step she advanced. 

The gay pomps and processions that met 
her upon her entrance into the valley, and 
th,e magnificence with which the roads 
all along were decorated, did honor to the 
taste and gallantry of the young king. It 
was night when they approached the city, 
and for the last two miles they had passed 
under arches, thrown from hedge to hedge, 
festooned with only those rarest roses from 
which the Attar Gul, more precious than 
gold, is distilled, and illuminated in rich and 
fanciful forms with lanterns of the triple- 
colored tortoise-shell of Pegu.* Sometimes, 
from a dark wood by the side of the road, a 
display of fire-works would break out, so 
sudden and so brilliant, that a Brahmin 
might think he saw that grove, in whose 
purple shade the god of battles was born, 
bursting into flame at the moment of his 
birth. While, at other times, a quick and 
playful irradiation continued to brighten all 
the fields and gardens by which they passed, 
forming a line of dancing lights along the 
horizon; like the meteors of the north as 
they are seen by those hunters who pursue 
ihe white and blue foxes on the confines of 
the Icy Sea. 

These arches and fire-works delighted the 
ladies of the Princess exceedingly ; and, 
with their usual good logic, they deduced 
from his taste for illuminations, that the 
King of Bucharia would make the most ex- 
emplary husband imaginable. Nor, indeed, 
could Lalla Rookh herself help feeling the 
kindness and splendor with which the young 
bridegroom welcomed her; but she also 



i " On standing roof of wood Is laid a covering of fine earth, 
which shelters the building from the great quantity of snow 
that falls in the winter season. This fence communicates an 
qual warmth in winter, as a refreshing coolness in the sum- 
mer season, when the tops of the houses, which are planted 
with a variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the spacious 
view of a beautifully chequered parterre." Forster. 

"Two hundred slaves there are who have no other office 
than to hunt the woods and marshes for triple-colored tortoise* 
for the King's Vivary. Of the shells of these also lanterns are 
nde." Vincent it Xtanc't Trmdt. 



felt how painful is the gratitude which kind- 
ness from those we cannot love excites ; and 
that their best blandishments come over the 
heart with all that chilling and deadly 
sweetness which we can fancy in the cold, 
odoriferous wind* that is to blow over this 
earth in the last days. 

The marriage was fixed for the morning 
after her arrival, when she was, for the first 
time, to be presented to the monarch in that 
imperial palace beyond the lake, called the 
Shalimar. . Though a night of more wakeful 
and anxious thought had never been passed 
in the Happy Valley, yet, when she rose in 
the morning, and her ladies came round her, 
to assist in the adjustment of the bridal or- 
naments, they thought they had never seen 
her look half so beautiful. What she had 
lost of the bloom and radiancy of her charms 
was more than made up by that intellectual 
expression that soul in the eyes which is 
worth all the rest of loveliness. When they 
had tinged her fingers with the henna leaf, 
and placed upon her brow a small coronel 
of jewels, of the shape worn by the ancient 
Queens of Bucharia, they flung over her 
head the rose-colored bridal veil, and she 
proceeded to the barge that was to convey 
her across the lake; first kissing, with a 
mournful look, the little amulet of cornelian 
which her father had hung about her neck at 
parting. 

The morning was as fair as the maid upon 
whose nuptials it rose, and the shining lake, 
all covered with- boats, the minstrels playing 
upon the shores of the islands, and the 
crowded summer-houses on the green hills 
around, with shawls and banners waving 
from their roofs, presented such a picture of 
animated rejoicing, as only she who was the 
object of it all did not feel with transport. 
To Lalla Rookh alone it was a melancholy 
pageant ; nor could she have even borne to 
look upon the scene, were it not for a hope 
that, among the crowds around she might 
once more perhaps catch a glimpse of Fera- 



1 This wind, which it* to blow from Syria Damascena is, ac- 
cording to the Mohammedans, one of the signs of the Last 
Day's approach. 

Another of the signs is, " Great distress in the world, BO 
that a man when he passes by another's grave thai! say, 
Would to God I were in his place."-Sofc' PrtKminarji Dit- 
esurte. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



159 



morz. So much was her imagination haunted 
by this thought, that there was scarcely an 
islet or boat she passed, at which her heart 
did not flutter with a momentary fancy that 
he was there. Happy, in her eyes, the hum- 
blest slave upon whom the light of his dear 
looks fell ! In the barge immediately after 
the Princess was Fadladeen, with his silken 
'curtains thrown widely apart, that all might 
iave the benefit of his august presence, and 
with his head full of the speech he was to 
deliver to the king, " concerning Feramorz, 
and literature, and the chabuk, as connected 
therewith." 

They had now entered the canal which 
leads from the Lake to the splendid domes 
and saloons of the Shalimar, and glided on 
through gardens ascendiug from each bank, 
full of flowering shrubs that made the air all 
perfume ; while from the middle of the canal 
rose jets of water, smooth and unbroken, to 
such a dazzling height, that they stood like 
pillars of diamond in the sunshine. After 
sailing under the arches of various saloons, 
they at length arrived at the last and most 
magnificent, where the monarch awaited the 
coming of his bride ; and such was the agita- 
tion of her heart and frame, that it was with 
difficulty she walked up the marble steps, 
which were covered with cloth of gold for 
her ascent from the barge. At the end of 
the hall stood two thrones, as precious as the 
cerulean throne of Koolburga, 1 on one of 



" On Mohammed Shaw's return to Koolbnrga, (the capital 
of Dckkan.) he made a great festival, and mounted this throne 
with much pomp and magnificence, calling it Firozeh or Ce- 
rulean. I have heard some old persons, who saw the throne 
Firozeh In the reign of Sultan Mamood Bbamenee, describe 
It. They say that it was in length nine feet, and three in 
breadth ; made of ebony, covered with plates of puro gold, and 
Mt with precious stones of immense value. Every prince of 
the house of Bhamenee, who possessed this throne, made a 
point of adding to it some rich stones, BO that when In the 
reign of Sultan Mamocd it was taken to pieces, to remove 
ume of the iewelu to be net in vases and epos, the lewellers 



which sat Aliris, the youthful King of 
Bucharia, and on the other was, in a few 
minutes, to be placed the most beautiful 
Princess in the world. Immediately upon 
the entrance of Lalla Rookh into the saloon, 
the monarch descended from his throne to 
meet her ; but scarcely had he time to take 
her hand in his, when she screamed with 
surprise, and fainted at his feet. It was 
Feramorz himself that stood before her ! 
Feramorz was, himself, the sovereign of 
Bucharia, who in this disguise had accom- 
panied his young bride from Delhi, and hav- 
ing won her love as an humble minstrel, now 
amply deserved to enjoy it as a king. 

The consternation of Fadladeen at Ihis 
discovery was, for the moment, almost piti- 
able. But change of opinion is a resource 
too convenient in courts for this experienced 
courtier not to have learned to avail himself 
of it. His criticisms were all, of course, re- 
canted instantly: he was seized with an 
admiration of the king's verses, as unbounded 
as, he begged him to believe, it was disintei 
ested ; and the following week saw him in 
possession of an additional plape, swearing 
by all the saints of Islam that never had 
there existed so great a poet as the monarch 
Aliris, and ready to prescribe his favorite 
regimen of the chabuk for every man, woman, 
and child that dared to think otherwise. 

Of the happiness of the King and Queen 
of Bucharia, after such a beginning, there 
can be but little doubt ; and, among the 
lesser symptoms, it is recorded of Lalla 
Rookh, that, to the day of her death, in 
memory of their delightful journey, she 
never called the king by any other name 
than Feramorz. 



valued it at one corore of oons, (nearly four millions sterling.) 
I learned also that it was called Firozeh from being partly 
enamelled of a sky-bine color, which _B in time totally con- 
cealed by the number of Jeweln." Ftril/ita 



FRAGMENT OF COLLEGE EXER- 
CISES. 

"Nobilltas sola cut atque nnica virtus. "-Jur. 

MARK those proud boasters of a splendid 

line, 
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they 

shine, 

How heavy sits that weight of alien show, 
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow ; 
Those borrow'd splendors, whose contrasting 

light 
Throws back the native shades in deeper 

night. 

Ask the proud train who glory's shade 
pursue, 

Where are the arts by which that glory grew ? 

The genuine virtues that with eagle gaze 

Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze ! 

Where is the heart by chemic truth refined, 

The exploring soul, whose eye had read 
mankind ? 

Where are the links that twined with heav- 
enly art 

His country's interest round the patriot's 
heart? 

Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of 
fire? 

The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre ? 

Do these descend with all that tide of fame 

Which vainly waters an unfruitful name ? 



THE SAME. 

Jnitun bellum quibus uecesparinm. et pl anna qnibas nnlla 
nll In rml8 rellnquttur spes." Uvy. 

Is there no call, no consecrating cause, 
Approved by Heaven, ordain'd by nature's 
laws, 



Where justice flies the herald of our way, 
And truth's pure beams upon the banner* 
play? 

Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath 
To slumbering babes, or innocence in death ; 
And urgent as the tongue of heaven within. 
When the mind's balance trembles upn sin. 

Oh ! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim 

should meet 

An echo in the soul's most deep retreat ; 
Along the heart's responding string should 

run, 
Nor let a tone there vibrate but the one ! 



SONG. 1 

MAEY, I believed thee true, 

And I was blest in thus believing ; 

But now I mourn that e'er I knew 
A girl so fair and so deceiving ! 

Fare thee well I 

Few have ever loved like me, 

Oh ! I have loved thee too sincerely ! 

And few have e'er deceived like thee, 
Alas ! deceived me too severely ! 

Fare thee well ! 

Fare thee well ! yet think a while 

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee ; 

Who now would rather trust that smile, 
And die with thee than live without thee ! 

Fare thee well I 

Fare thee well ! I'll think of thee, 
Thou leav'st me many a bitter token ; 

For see, distracting woman ! sec, 
My peace is gone, my heart is broken ! 

Fare thee well ! 



' To the Scotch air. " Gala Water.' 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



161 



TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL 

MISS . 

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A 
LOTTERY SHARE. 

IN wedlock a species of lottery lies, 

Where in blanks and in prizes we deal : 
But how conies it that you, such a capital 

prize 

Should so long have remained on the 
wheel ! 

If ever, by fortune's indulgent decree, 
To me such a ticket should roll, 

A sixteenth, Heaven knows ! were sufficient 

for me ; 
For what could I do with the whole f 



INCONSTANCY.' 

AXD do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, 
When surely there's nothing in nature 

more common ? 
Bhe vows to be true, and while vowing she 

leaves me 

But coald I expect any more from a 
woman ? 

O woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ; 
And Mohammed's doctrine was not too 

severe, 
When he thought you were only materials 

of pleasure, 

And reason and thinking were out of your 
sphere. 

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover 

can win it, 

He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ; 
But, oh ! while he's blest, let him die on the 

minute 

If he live but a day, he'll be surely be- 
tray'd. 



TO JULIA. 

THOUGH Fate, my girl, may bid us part, 
Our souls it cannot, shall not sever 



The heart will seek its kindred heart, 
And cling to it as close as ever. 

But must we, must we part indeed ? 

Is all our dream of rapture over ? 
And does not Julia's bosom bleed 

To leave so dear, so fond a lover ? 

Does she too mourn ? Perhaps she may ; 

Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting ; 
But why is Julia's eye so gay, 

If Julia's heart like mine is beating ? 

I oft have loved the brilliant glow 

Of rapture in her blue eye streaming 

But can the bosom bleed with woe, 
While joy is in the glances beaming ? 

No, no ! Yet, love, I will not chide, 

Although your heart were fond of roving : 

Nor that, nor all the world beside, 

Could keep your faithful boy from loving 

You'll soon be distant from his eye, 

And, with you, all that's worth possessing 

Oh ! then it will be sweet to die, 
When life has lost its only blessing ! 



TO ROSA. 

DOES the harp of Rosa slumber? 
Once it breathed the sweetest number I 
Never does a wilder song 
Steal the breezy lyre along, 
When the wind, in odors dying, 
Woos it with enamor'd sighing. 

Does the harp of Rosa cease * 
Once it told a tale of peace 
To her lover's throbbing breast 
Then he was divinely blest ! 
Ah ! but Rosa loves no more, 
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er ; 
And her harp neglected lies ; 
And her boy forgotten sighs. 
Silent harp forgotten lover 
Rosa's love and song are over ! 



1G2 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF 
A LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK. 

HKKK is one leaf reserved for me, 
From all thy sweet memorials free ; 
And here my simple song might tell 
The feelings thou must guess so welL 
But could I thus, within thy mind, 
One little vacant corner find, 
Where no impression yet is seen, 
Where no memorial yet has been, 
Oh ! it should be my sweetest care 
To write my name forever there ! 



ANACREONTIC. 

" m lachrymal verterat omne nwrum." Tib., lib. L, eleg. 5. 

PRESS the grape, and let it pour 
Around the board its purple shower : 
And while the drops my goblet steep, 
I'll think in woe the clusters weep. 

Weep oa, weep on, my pouting vine : 
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine. 
Weep OD : and, as thy sorrows flow, 
I'll tv j .,e the hixury of woe. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

How sweetly could I lay my head 
Within the cold grave's silent brenst ; 

Where sorrow's tears no more are shod, 
No more the ills 'of life molest. 

For, ah ! my heart, how very soon 

The glittering dreams of youth are past 

And long before it reach its noon, 
The sun of life is overcast. 



ANACREONTIC. 

FRIEND of my soul ! this goblet sip, . 

'Twill chase that pensive tear ; 
Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, 
But, oh ! 'tis more sincere. 
Like her delusive beam, 

'Twill steal away thy mind : 
But, like affection's dream, 
It leaves no sting behind ! 

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade ; 

These flowers were cull'd at noon ; 
like woman's love the rose will fade, 
But, ah ! not half so soon ! 

For though the flower's decay'd, 

Its fragrance is not o'er ; 
But once when love's betray'd, 
The heart can bloom no more I 



" Neither do 1 condemn thee ; go, and sin no more t" 
St. Jo/in, Tiii. 11. 

WOMAN ! if by simple wile 

Thy soul has stray'd from honor's track, 
'Tis mercy only can beguile, 

By gentle ways, the wanderer back. 

The stain that on thy virtue lies, 

Wash'd by thy tears, may yet decay j 

As clouds that sully morning skies 
May all be wept in showers aw&y. 

Go, go be innocent, and live 

The tongues of men may wound thee sore- 
But Heaven in pity can forgive, 

And bids thee " go, and sin no more I" 



TO ROSA. 

AND are you then a thing of art, 
Enslaving all, and loving none ; 

And have I strove to gain a heart 

Which every coxcomb thinks his own f 

Do you thus seek to flirt a number, 
And through a round of danglers run, 

Because yonr heart's Insipid slumber 
Could never wake to feel lor one f 

Tell me at once if this be true, 

And I shall calm my jealous breast ; 

Shall learn to join the dangling crew, 
And share your simpers with the rest. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



163 



But if your heart be not so free, 
Oh ! if another share that heart, 

Tell not the saddening tale to me, 
But mingle mercy with your art. 



THE SURPRISE. . 

CHLORIS, I swear, by all I ever swore, 
That from this hour I shall not love thee 

more. 
" What ! love no more ? Oh ! why this 

alter'd vow?" 
Because I cannot love thee more than now! 



A DREAM. 

I THOUGHT this heart consuming lay 
On Cupid's burning shrine : 

I thought he stole thy heart away, 
And placed it near to mine. 

I saw thy heart begin to melt, 

Like ice before the sun ; 
Till both a glow congenial felt, 

And mingled into one ! 



WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE 
BOOK, 

CALLED " THE BOOK OP FOLLIES ;" 

To wftich every one fliat opened it sluwld contribute 
tomething. 

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. 

THIS tribute's from a wretched elf, 
Who hails thee, emblem of himself ! 
The book of life, which I have traced, 
Has been, like thee, a motley waste 
Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, 
One folly bringing hundreds more. 
Some have indeed been writ so neat, 
In characters so fair, so sweet, 
That tbose who judge not too severely, 



Have said they loved such follies dearly I 
Yet still, O book ! the allusion stands : 
For these were penn'd by female hands ; 
The rest, alas ! I own the truth, 
Have all been scribbled so uncouth, 
That Prudence, with a withering lo'ok,- 
Disdainful flings away the book. 
Like thine, its pages here and there 
Have oft been stain'd with blots of care ; 
And sometimes hours of peace, I own, 
Upon some fairer leaves have shown, 
White as the snowings of that heaveH 
By which those hours of peace were given. 
But now no longer such, oh ! such 
The blast of Disappointment's touch ! 
No longer now those hours appear ; 
Each leaf is sulfied by a tear : 
Blank, blank is every page with care, 
Not even a folly brightens there. 
Will they yet brighten ? Never, never t 
Then shut the book, alas ! forever ! 



THE BALLAD. 

THOU hast sent me a flowery band, 

And told me 'twas fresh from the field ; 

That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand, 
And the purest of odors would yield. 

And indeed it was fragrant and fair ; 

But, if it were handled by thee, 
It would bloom with a livelier air, 

And would surely be sweeter to me ! 

Then take it, and let it entwine 
Thy tresses, so flowing and bright ; 

And each little floweret will shine 
More rich than a gem to my sight. 

Let the odorous gale of thy breath 

Embalm it with many a sigh ; 
Nay, let it be withcr'd to death, 

Beneath the warm noon of thine eye. 

And, instead of the dew that it bears, 
The dew dropping fresh from the tree ; 

On its leaves let me number the tears 
That affection has stolen from thee 1 



164 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



THE TEAR. 

ON beds of snow the moonbeam slept, 
Aud chilly was the midnight gloom, 

"When by the damp grave Ellen wept 
Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb ! 

A warm tear gush'd, the wintry air 
Congeal'd it as it flow'd away : 

.All night it lay an ice- drop there, 
At morn it glitter'd in the ray ! 

An angel wandering from her sphere, 

Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, 
'To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear, 
And hung it on her diadem ! 



SONG. 

~KAVE you not seen the timid tear 

Steal trembling from mine eye ? 
'Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, 

Or caught the murmur'd sigh ? 
And can you think my love is chill, 

Nor fix'd on you alone ? 
And can you rend, by doubting still, 

A heart so much your own ? 

To you my soul's affections move 

Devoutly, warmly, true ; 
My life has been a task of love, 

One long, long thought of you. 
If all your tender faith is o'er, 

If still my truth you'll try ; 
Alas ! I know but one proof more 

-I'll bless your name, and die ! 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

" Sic Jurat perlre." 

wearied wretches sink to sleep, 
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie ! 
How sweet is death to those who weep, 
To those who weep and long to die ! 



Saw you the soft and grassy bed, 
Where flowerets deck the green 
breast ? 



earth's 



'Tis there I wish to lay my head, 
'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest ! 

Oh ! let not tears emoalm my tomb 
None but the dews by twilight given ! 

Oh ! let not sighs disturb the gloom 
None but the whispering winds of heaven! 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 

How oft a cloud, with envious veil, 
Obscures yon bashful light, 

Which seems so modestly to steal 
Along the waste of night ! 

Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrong* 

Obscure with malice keen 
Some timid heart, which only longs 

To live and die unseen ! 



SONG. 

SWKBTBST love ! I'll not forget tliee; 

Time shall only teach my heart, 
Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, 

Lovely, gentle as thou art ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Yet, oh ! yet again we'll meet, love, 
And repose our hearts at last : 

Oh ! sure 'twill then be sweet, love, 
Calm to think on sorrows past. 
Farewell, Bessy ' 

Still I feel my heart is breaking, 
When I think I stray from thee, 

Round the world that quiet seeking, 
Which I fear is not for me ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Calm to peace thy lover's bosom- 
Can it, dearest ! must it be ? 

Thou within an hour shalt lose him, 
He H irever loses thee ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



165 



THE GENIUS OF HARMONY. 

AN IRREGULAR ODE. 

"Ad harmoniam canere mundnm. ' Vicero, De Nat. 
Dear., lib. iii. 

THERE lies a shell beneath the waves, 
In many a hollow winding wreathed, 

Such as of old 
Jcho'd the breath that warbling sea-maids 
breathed : 

This magic shell 

From the white bosom of a syren fell, 
As once she wander'd by the tide that laves 
Sicilia's sands of gold. 

It bears 
Upon its shining side, the mystic notes 

Of those entrancing airs 
The genii of the deep were wont to bwell 
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight 

music roll'd ! 
Oh ! seek it wheresoe'er it floats ; 

And if the power 

Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear, 

Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, 

And I will fold thee in such downy dreams 

As lap the spirit of the seventh sphere 

When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his 

ear, 

And thou shalt own 

That, through the circle of creation's zone, 
Where matter darkles or where spirit 

beams ; 

From the pellucid tides that whirl 
The planets through their maze of song, 
To the small rill that weeps along, 
Murmuring o'er beds of pearl ; 

From the rich sigh 
Of the sun's arrow through an evening 



To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields 

On Afric's burning fields ;' 
Oh ! thou shalt own this universe divine 

Is mine ! 

That I respire in all and all in me, 
One mighty mingled soul of boundless har- 
mony ! 

1 Heraclides, upon the allegories of Homer, conjectures that 
the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this 
poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, supposes 
them to emit a peculiar sound in the air. 

In the account of Africa which d'Ablanconrthas translated, 
there is mention of a tree In that country whose branches, 
when shaken by the hand, produce very sweet sounds. 



Welcome, welcome, mystic shell ! 
Many a star has ceased to burn,' 
Many a tear has Saturn's urn 
O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, 
Since thy aerial spell 
Hath in the waters slept ! 

I fly 
With the bright treasure to my choral 

sky, 

Where she, who waked its early swell, 
The syren with a foot of fire, 
Walks o'er the great string of my Orphie 

Lyre,' 

Or guides around the burning pole 
The winged chariot of some blissful soul ! 

While thou, 
O son of earth ! what dreams shall rise for 

thee! 

Beneath Hispania's sun 
Thou'lt see a streamlet run, 
Which I have warm'd with dews of melody. 

Listen ! when the night wind dies 
Down the still current, like a harp it sighs 1 
A liquid chord is every wave that flows, 
An airy plectrum every breeze that blows ! 

There, by that wondrous stream, 
Go lay thy languid brow, 
And I will send thee such a godlike dream, 
Such mortal ! mortal 1 hast thou heard of 

him,' 
Who, many a night, with his primordial 

lyre, 

Sate on the chill Pangaean mount, 
And looking to the orient dim, 
Watch'd the first flowing of that sacred 

fount, 

From which his soul had drunk its fire! 
Oh ! think what visions, in that lonely hour, 
Stole o'er his musing breast ! 

What pious ecstasy 
Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power, 

Whose seal upon this world imprest' 
The various forms of bright divinity ! 



Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, 
of some of those fixed stars which we are taught to consider 
as snns attended each by its system. 

Porphyry says that Pythagoras held the sea to be a tear. 

The system of the harmonized orbs was styled by the an- 
cient* " The Great Lyre of Orpheus." 

Orpheus. 

' In one of the Hymns of Orpheus, he attributes figured 
seal to Apollo, with which he imagines that deity to bar* 
stamped a variety of forms upon the universe. 



166 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, 
'Mid the deep horror of that silent bower, 1 
Where the rapt Samian slept his holy 
slumber ! 

When, free 

From every earthly chain, 
From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of 

pain, 

His spirit flew through fields above, 
Drank at the source of nature's fontal 

number,* 

And saw, in mystic choir, around him move 
The stars of song, Heaven's burning min- 
strelsy ! 
Such dreams, so heavenly bright, 

I swear 

By the great diadem that twines my hair, 
And by the seven gems that sparkle there,* 

Mingling their beams 
In a soil iris of harmonious light, 
O mortal! such shall be thy radiant 
dreams ! 



SONG. 

WHEN '.Time, who steals our years away, 
Shall steal our pleasures too, 

The memory of the past will stay, 
And half our joys renew. 

Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower 

Shall feel the wintry air, 
Remembrance will recall the hour 

When thou alone wert fair ! 

Then talk no more of future gloom ; 

Our joys shall always last; 
For hope shall brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, 
I drink to love and thee : 



1 Alluding to the cave near Samoa, where Pythagoras de- 
TOted the greater part of his days and nights to meditation, 
and the mysteries of his philosophy. 

* The Tetractys, or Sacred Number of the Pythagoreans 
on which they solemnly swore, and which they called 
nay ay asraov $v<Sew<;, "The Fountain of Perennial 
Nature." 

This diadem is Intended to represent the analogy between 
the notes of music and the prismatic colors. 



Thou never canst decay in soul, 
Tbou'lt still be young for me. 

And as thy lips the tear-drop chase, 
Which on thy cheek they find, 

So hope shall steal away the trace 
Which sorrow leaves behind ! 

Then fill the bowl away with gloom 1 

Our joys shall always last ; 
For hope shall brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 

But mark, at thought of future years 

When love shall lose its soul, 
My Chloe drops her timid tears, 

They mingle with my bowl ! 

How like the bowl of wine, my fair, 

Our loving life shall fleet ; 
Though tears may sometimes mingle there, 

The draught will still be sweet ! 

Then fill the bowl ! away with gloom 1 

Our joys shall always last; 
For hope wttl brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 



PEACE AND GLORY. 

WRITTEN AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF THB 
PRESENT WAK. 

WHERE is now the smile that lighten'd 

Every hero's couch of rest ? 
Where is now the hope that brighten'd 

Honor's eye and pity's breast ? 
Have we lost the wreath we braided 

For our weary warrior men ? 
Is the faithless olive faded, 

Must the bay be pluck'd again ? 

Passing hour of sunny weather, 

Lovely in your light a while, 
Peace and Glory, wed together, 

Wander'd through the blessed isle. 
And the eyes of peace would glisten, 

Dewy as a morning sun, 
When the timid maid would listen 

To the deeds her chief had done. 

Is the hour of meeting over ? 

Must the maiden's trembling feet 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



167 



Waft her from her warlike lover 
To the desert's still retreat ? 

Fare you well ! with sighs we banish 
Nymph so fair and guest so bright ; 

Fet the smile with which you vanish 
Leaves behind a soothing light ! 

Soothing light ! that long shall sparkle 

O'er your warrior's sanguine way 
Through the field where horrors darkle, 

Shedding Hope's consoling ray ! 
Long the smile his heart will cherish, 

To its absent idol true ; 
While around him myriads perish, 

Glory still will sigh for you ! 



TO CLOE. 

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL. 

I COULD resign that eye of blue, 

Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me ; 

And though your lip be rich with dew, 
To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. 

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, 
However oft I've raved about it; 

And though your heart can beat with bliss, 
I think my soul could live without it. 

In short, I've learn'd so well to fast, 
That, sooth my love, I know not whither 

[ might not bring myself at last 
To do without you altogether ! 



LYING. 

L DO confess, in many a sigh 

My lips have breathed you many a lie, 

And who, with such delights in view, 

Would lose them for a lie or two ? 

Nay, look not thus, with brow reproving ; 

Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving ! 

If half we tell the girls were true, 

If half we swear to think and do, 

Were aught but lying's bright illusion, 

The world would be in strange confusion 1 



If ladies' eyes were, every one, 
As lovers' swear, a radiant sun, 
Astronomy should leave the skies, 
To learn her lore in ladres' eyes ! 
Oh, no ! believe me, lovely girl, 
When Nature turns your teeth to pearl, 
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, 
Your yellow locks to golden wire, 
Then, only then, can Heaven decree, 
That you should live for only me. 

And now, my gentle hints to clear, 
For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear ! 
Whenever you may chance to meet 
A loving youth whose love is sweet, 
Long as you're false and he believes you, 
Long as you trust and he deceives you, 
So long the blissful bond endures ; 
And while he lies, his heart is yours ; 
But, oh ! you've wholly lost the youth 
The instant that he tells you truth ! 



WOMAN. 

AWAY, away, you're all the same, 
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng I 

Oh ! by my soul, I burn with shame, 
To think I've been your slave so long ! 

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign, 
More joy it gives to woman's breast 

To make ten frigid coxcombs vain, 
Than one true manly lover blest I 

Away, away your smile's a curse 
Oh ! blot me from the race of men, 

Kind, pitying Heaven ! by death or worse, 
Before I love such things again ! 



A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY. 

'TWAS on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met 
The venerable man ; a virgin bloom 
Of softness mingled with the vigorous thought 
That tower'd upon his brow ; as when we see 
The gentle moon and the full radiant sun 



108 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Shining in heaven together. When he spoke, 
Twas language sweeten'd into song such 

holy sounds 

As oft the spirit of the good man hears 
Prelusive to the harmony of heaven 
When death is nigh ! and still, as he unclosed 
.^His sacred lips, an odor all as bland 
As ocean breezes gather from the flowers 
That blossom in Elysium, breathed around ! 
With silent awe we listen'd, while he told 
Of the dark veil which many an age had 

hung 

O'er Nature's form, till by the touch of time 
The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, 
And half the goddess beam'd in glimpses 

through it ! 
Of magic wonders that were known and 

taught 

By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named) 
Who mused, amid the mighty cataclysm, 
O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore, 1 
Nor let the living star of science sink 
Beneath the waters which ingulf'd the 

world ! 

Of visions, by Calliope reveal'd 
To him, 1 who traced upon his typic lyre 
The diapason of man's mingled frame, 
And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven ! 
With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, 
Which the grave sons of Mochus many a 

night 

Told to the young and bright-hair'd visitant 
Of Carmel's sacred mount !' Then, in a flow 
Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on 
Through many a maze of garden and of porch, 
Through many a system where the scatter'd 

light 

Of heavenly truth lay like a broken beam 
From the pure sun, which, thoutrh refracted 

all 
Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still, 



1 Cham, the son of Noah, is supposed to have taken with 
aim into the ark the principal doctrines of magical, or rather 
of natural science, which he had inscribed upon some very 
durable s jbst&nces, in order that they might resist the ravages 
of the deluge, and transmit the secrets of antediluvian knowl- 
edge to his posterity. 

* Orpheus. 

' Pythagoras is represented in Jamblichus as descending 
with great solemnity from Mount Carmel, for which reason 
the Carmelites have claimed him as one of their fraternity. 
This Mochus or Moschns, with the descendants of whom 
Pythagoras conversed in Phoenicia, and from whom he derived 
toe doctrines of atomic philosophy, it supposed by some to be 
the tame with Moses. 



And bright through every change ! he 

spoke of Him, 

The lone, eternal One, who dwells above, 
And of the soul's untraceable descent 
From that high fount of spirit, through the 

grades 

Of intellectual being, till it mix 
With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark ; 
Nor even then, though sunk in earthly dross, 
Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch 
Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still ! 
As some bright river, which has roll'd along 
Through meads of flowery light and mines 

of gold, 

When pour'd at length into the dusky deep, 
Disdains to mingle with its briny taint, 
But keeps a while the pure and golden tinge, 
The balmy freshness of the fields it left ! 
And here the old man ceased a winged train 
Of nymphs and genii led him from our eyes. 
The fair illusion fled ! and, as I waked, 
I knew my visionary soul had been 
Among that people of aerial dreams 
Who live upon the burning galaxy !' 



A BALLAD. 
THE LAKE OF TBE DISMAL SWAMP. 

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA. 

" They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death 
of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from hit 
friends, was never afterward heard of. As he had frequently 
said in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the 
Dismal Swamp, It is supposed he had wandered into that 
dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been losl in 
some of it* dreadful morasses." Anon. 

" La poesie a ses monstres comme la nature." D' Alembtri. 

" THEY made her a grave too cold and damp 

For a soul so warm and true ; 
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal 

Swamp,' 
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, 

She paddles her white canoe. 

" And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 
And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 



4 According to Pythagoras, the people of dreams are soult 
collected together in the galaxy. 

The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles dlstan. 
from Norfolk, ai>i the hike in the middle of it (about eeveo 
miles long) is called Drummond'i Pond. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



169 



Long and loving our life shall be, 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, 
When the footstep of death is near 1" 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds 

His path was rugged and sore, 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, 

And man never trod before ! 

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew ! 

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, 
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
" Oh ! when shall I see the dusky Lake, 
And the white canoe of my dear ?" 

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface play'd 
" Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light !" 
And the dim shore echo'd for many a night 
The name of the death-cold maid 1 

Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, 
Which carried him off from the shore ; 

Far he follow'd the meteoY spark, 

The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 
And the boat return'd no more. 

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, 
To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, 

And paddle their white canoe ! 



AT NIGHT. 

These lines allude to a cnricras lamp, which has for Its de- 
rice a Cupid, with the words "At Night" written oer him. 

AT night, when all is still around, 
How sweet to hear the distant sound 
Of footstep, coming soft and light ! 
What pleasure in the anxious beat 



With which the bosom flies to meet 
That foot that comes so soft at night ! 

And then, at night, how sweet to say 
" 'Tis late, my love !" and chide delay, 

Though still the western clouds are bright ; 
Oh ! happy, too, the silent press, 
The eloquence of mute caress, 

With those we love exchanged at night t 



ODES TO NEA. 



WRITTEN AT BERMUDA. 



I. 



THE SNOW-SPIRIT. 

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep 

An island of lovelier charms ; 
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, 

Like Hebe in Hercules' arms ! 
The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye, 

Their melody balm to the ear ; 
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, 

And the Snow-Spirit never comes here ! 

The down from his wing is as white as the 

pearl 

Thy lips for their cabinet stole, 
And it falls on the green earth as melting, 

my girl, 

As a murmur of thine on the soul ! 
Oh ! fly to the clime where he pillows the 

death 

As he cradles the birth of the year ; 
Bright are your bowers and balmy their 

breath, 
But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! 

How sweet to behold him, when borne on 
the gale, 

And brightening the bosom of morn, 
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil 

O'er the brow of each virginal thorn ! 
Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts, 

Is the veil of a vestal severe ; 
No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasX 

Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here 



170 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But fly to his region lay open thy zone, 

And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim, 
To think that a bosom as white as his own 

Should not melt in the day-beam like hinj 
Oh ! lovely the print of those delicate feet 

O'er his luminous path will appear 
Fly ! my belove'd ! this island is sweet, 

But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here 1 



IL 

f HERB'S not a look, a word of thine 

My soul has e'er forgot ; 
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, 
Nor given thy locks one graceful twine 

Which I remember not ! 

There never yet a murmur fell 
From that beguiling tongue, 
Which did not, with a lingering spell, 
Upon my charmed senses dwell, 
Like something heaven had sung. 

Ah ! that I could, at once, forget 

All, all that haunts me so 
And yet, thou witching girl ! and yet 
To die were sweeter than to let 
The loved remembrance go ! 

No ; if this slighted heart must see 

Its faithful pulse decay, 
Oh i let it die, remembering: thee, 
Ana, like the burnt aroma, be 

Consumed in sweets away ! 



LINES, 

WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SKA. 

OH ! there's a holy calm profound 
In awe like this, that ne'er was given 

To rapture's thrill ; 
Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, 
And the soul, listening to the sound, 

Lies mute and still ! 



'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, 

Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow 

In the cold deep, 

Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow 
No more shall wake the heart or eye, 

But all must sleep 1 

Well ! there are some, thou stormy bed, 
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure ; 

Oh ! most to him 

Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure, 
Nor left one honey-drop to shed 

Round misery's brim. 

Yes he can smile serene at death : 

Kind Heaven ! do thou but chase the weeping 

Of friends who love him ; 
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping 
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath 

No more shall move him. 



THE STEERSMAN'S SONG. 

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE. 
S8TH APRIL. 

WHEN freshly blows the northern gale, 

And under courses snug we fly ; 
When lighter breezes swell the sail, 

And royals proudly sweep the sky ; 
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still 

I stand, and as my watchful eye 
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, 

I think of her I love, and cry, 

Port, my boy ! port. 

When calms delay, or breezes blow 

Right from the point we wish to steer , 
When by the wind close-haul'd we go, 

And strive in vain the port to near; 
I think 'tis thus the fates defer 

My bliss with one that's far away, 
And while remembrance springs to her, 

I watch the sails, and sighing say, 
Thus, my boy ! thus. 

But see, the wind draws kindly aft, 
All hands are up the yards to square, 

And now the floating stu'n-sails waft 
Our stately ship through waves and air. 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Oh ! then I think that yet for me 
Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, 

Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee ! 
And in that hope I smiling sing, 
Steady, boy 1 so. 



LINES, 

WBITTKN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA. 

ALONE by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, . 
And bright were its flowery banks to his 

eye; 
But far, very far were the friends that he 

loved, 

And he gazed on its flowery bank* with a 
sigh ! 

Nature ! though blessed and bright are 

thy rays, 
O'er the brow of creation enchantingly 

thrown, 

Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays 
In a smile from the heart that is dearly 
our own ! 

ft or long did the soul of the stranger remain 
Unblest by the smile he had languish'd to 

meet ; 
Though scarce did he hope it would soothe 

him again, 

Till the threshold of home had been kiss'd 
by his feet ! 

But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to 

their ear, 
And they loved what they knew of so 

humble a name, 
And they told him, with flattery welcome 

and dear, 

That they found in his heart something 
sweeter than fame. 

Nor did woman O woman ! whose form 

and whose soul 
Are the spell and the light of each path 
we pursue ; 



Whether sunn'd in the tropics or chill'd at 

the pole, 
If woman be there, there is happiness too ! 

Nor did she her enamoring magic deny, 
That magic his heart had relinquished so 

long, 

Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye 
Like them did it soften and weep at his 
song! 

Oh ! blest be the tear, and in memory oft 
May its sparkle be shed o'er his wandering 

dream ! 
Oh ! blest be that eye, and may passion as 

soft, 
As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam 1 

The stranger is gone but he will not forget, 
When at home he shall talk of the toil he 

has known, 
To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, 
As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuyl- 
kill alone 1 



LINES, 

WBITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALL OF THK 
MOHAWK E1VEB. 

FROM rise of morn till set of sun 
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run, 
And as I mark'd the woods of pine 
Along his mirror darkly shine, 
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass 
Before the wizard's midnight glass ; 
And as I view'd the hurrying pace 
With which he ran his turbid race, 
Rushing, alike untired and wild, 
Through shades that frown'd and flower* 

that smiled, 

Flying by every green recess 
That woo'd him to its calm caress, 
Yet sometimes turning with the wmU. 
As if to leave one look behind ! 
Oh ! I have thought, and thinking sigh'd 
How like to thee, thou heartless tide, 
May be the lot, the life of him, 
Who roams along thy water's brim ! 



172 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Through what alternate shades of woe 
And flowers ofjoy my path may go ; 
How many an humble, still retreat 
May rise to court my weary feet, 
While still pursuing, still unblest, 
I wander on, nor dare to rest ! 
But urgent as the doom that calls 
Thy water to its destined falls, 
I see the world's bewildering force 
Hurry my heart's devoted course 
From lapse to lapse, till life be done, 
And the lost current cease to run ! 
May heaven's forgiving rainbow shine 
Upon the mist that circles me, 
As soft as now it hangs o'er thee ! 



BALLAD STANZAS. 

by the smoke that so gracefully 
curl'd 
Above the green elms, that a cottage was 

near, 
And I said, " If there's peace to be found in 

the world, 

A heart that is humble might hope for it 
here !" 

It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd 

around 

In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a 

sound 

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow 
beech-tree. 

And " Here in this lone little wood," I ex- 

claim'd, 
" With a maid who was lovely to soul and 

to eye, 
Who would blush when I praised her, and 

weep if I blamed, 

How blest could I live, and how calm 
could I die ! 

" By the shade of yon sumach, whose red 

berry dips 

In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to 
recline, 



And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent 

lips, 

Which had never been sigh'd on by any 
but mine !" 



A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. 

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LA WRENCH. 

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime, 
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. 
Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past I 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curlf 
But when the wind blows off the shore, 
Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past! 

Utawas tide ! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle I hear our prayers, 
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past! 



BLACK AND BLUE EYES. 

THE brilliant black eye 

May in triumph let fly 
All its darts without caring who feels 'em; 

But the soft eye of blue, 

Though it scatter wounds too, 
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em ' 

Dear Fanny ! 

The soft eye of blue, 

Though it scatter wounds too, 
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em. 

The black eye may say, 
" Come and worship my ray 
By adoring, perhaps, you may move m? I" 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



173 



But the blue eye, half hid, 
Says, from under its lid 

" I love, and am yours, if you love me !' : 
Dear Fanny ! 
The blue eye, half hid, 
Says, from under its lid 

44 1 love, and am yours, if you love me !" 

Then tell me, oh, why, 

In that lovely blue eye, 
Not a charm of its tint I discover ; 

Or why should you wear 

The only blue pair 
That ever said " No" to a lover ? 

Dear Fanny ! 

Oh, why should you wear 

The only blue pair 
That ever said "No" to a lover ? 



LOVE AND TIME. 

Tis said but whether true or not 

Let bards declare who've seen 'em 
That Love and Time have only got 

One pair of wings between 'em. 
In courtship's first delicious hour, 

The boy full well can spare 'em ; 
So, loitering in his lady's bower, 

He lets the array-beard wear 'em. 
Then is Time's hour of play; 
Oh, how he flies away ! 

But short the moments, short as bright, 

When he the wings can borrow ; 
If Time to-day has had its flight, 

Love takes his turn to-morrow. 
Ah ! Time and Love, your change is then 

The saddest and most trying, 
When one begins to limp again, 

And t'other takes to flying. 
Then is Love's hour to stray ; 
Oh, how he flies away ! 

Hut there's a nymph, whose chains I feel 

And bless the silken fetter, 
Who knows, the dear one, how to deal 

With Love and Time much better. 



So well she checks their wanderings, 

So peacefully she pairs 'em, 
That Love with her ne'er thinks of wingB, 
And Time forever wears 'em. 
This is Time's holiday ; 
Oh, how he flies away ! 



DEAR FANNY. 

" SHE has beauty, but still you must keep 

your heart cool ; 
She has wit, but you mustn't be caught 

so:" 

Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, 
And 'tis not the first time I have thought 

so; 

Dear Fanny, 
Tis not the first time I have thought BO. 

" She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the 

bliss fly ; 
'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing s* 

son :" 

Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny 
That Love reasons much better than Rea- 
son ? 

Dear Fanny, 
Love reasons much better than Reason. 



FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. 

FEOM life without freedom, oh, who would 

not fly ? 
For one dny of freedom, oh ! who would not 

die? 
Hark ! hark ! 'tis the trumpet ! the call of 

the brave, 
The death-song of tyrants, and dirge of the 

slave. 

Our country lies bleeding oh, fly to her aid ; 
One arm that defends is worth hosts that 

invade. 

In death's kindly bosom our last hope re- 
mains 



174 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE 



The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no 

chains. 

On, on to the combat ; the heroes that bleed 
For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. 
' And oh, even if freedom from this world be 

driven, 
Despair not at least we shall find her in 

heaven. 



MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOTJNDETH. 

THE TYROLESE SONQ OF LIBERTY. 

. MBBKILY every bosom boundeth, 

Merrily, oh ! 
Where the song of freedom soundeth, 

Merrily, oh ! 
There the warrior's arms 

Shed more splendor; 
There the maiden's charms 

Shine more tender ; 
Every joy the land surroundeth, 
Merrily, oh ! merrily, oh ! 

Wearily every bosom pineth, 

Wearily, oh ! 
Where the bond of slavery twineth, 

Wearily, oh ! 
There the warrior's dart 

Hath no fleetness; 
There the maiden's heart 
Hath no sweetness 



Every flower of life declineth, 
Wearily, oh ! wearily, oh ! 

Cheerily then from hill and vallej, 

Cheerily, oh ! 
Like your native fountains sally, 

Cheerily, oh ! 
If a glorious death, 
Won by bravery, 
Sweeter be than breath 

Sigh'd in slavery, 
Round the flag of freedom rally, 
Cheerily, oh ! cheerily, oh ! 



SIGH NOT THUS. 

SIGH not thus, oh, simple boy, 

Nor for woman languish ; 
Loving cannot boast a joy 

Worth one hour of anguish. 
Moons have faded fast away, 

Stars have ceased their shining j 
Woman's love, as bright as they, 

Feels as quick declining. 

Then, love, vanish hence, 

Fye, boy, banish hence 
Melancholy thoughts of Cupid's Ions, 

Hours soon fly away, 

Charms soon die away, 
Then the silly dream of the heart is o'er 



THOU ART, O GOD. 

" The day is thine, the night also IB thine : thon hast pre- 
pared tne light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders 
of the earth ; them hast made summer and winter." Ptahn 
Irxiv. 16, 11. 

THOU art, O God, the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see ; 

hs glow by day, its smile by night, 
Are but reflections caught from Thee. 

Where'er we turn thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine ! 

When day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the op'niug clouds of even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into heaven 

Those hues that made the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine ! 

When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies, 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

So grand, so'countless, Lord ! are Thine. 

When youthful spring around us breathes, 

Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 
And every flower the summer wreathes 

Is born beneath that kindling eye. 
. Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, 
And all things fair and bright are Thine ! 



THE BIRD LET LOOSE. 

THE bird let loose in eastern skies,' 

When hast'ning fondly home, 
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 

Where idle warblers roam. 

. The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an derated 
pitch, In order to surmount every obstacle between her and 
the place to which she is destined. 



But high she shoots through air and light, 

Above all low delay, 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God, from every care 

And stain of passion free, 
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, 

To hold my course to Thee ! 
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay 

My soul, as home she springs ; 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 

Thy freedom in her wings. 



FALLEN IS THY THRONE. 

is thy throne, O Israel ! 

Silence is o'er thy plains; 
Thy dwellings all lie desolate, 

Thy children weep" in chains! 
Where are the dews that fed thee 

On Etham's barren shore ? 
That fire from heaven which led thee, 

Now lights thy path no more. 

Lord ! thou didst love Jerusalem 

Once she was all Thy own ; 
Her love Thy fairest heritage, 1 

Her power Thy glory's throne,' 
Till evil came and blighted 

Thy long-loved olive-tree ;' 
And Salem's shrines were lighted 

For other gods than Thee. 

Then sunk the star of Solyma 

Then pass'd her glory's day, 

. "I have left mine heritage ; I have given the dearly b 
loved of my soul into the hand of her enemies -^f *"' 7 ' 
Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory.' Wr. v. 
. " The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree ; Oil and 
goodly fruit,' 1 &c.Jr- *i. 16 



176 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Like heath that in the wilderness' 
The wild wind whirls away. 

Silent and waste her bowers, 
Where once the mighty trod, 

And sunk those guilty towers, 
Where Baal reign'd as God. 

Go" said the Lord " ye conquerors ! 

Steep in her blood your swords, 
And raze to earth her battlements,' 

For they are not the Lord's. 
Till Zion's mournful daughter 

O'er kindred bones shall tread, 
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter* 

Shall hide but half her dead !" 



O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURN- 
ER'S TEAR 

"He bealeth the broken in heart, and blndeth up their 
rounds." Psalm czlrll. 8. 

THOU who dry'st the mourner's tear, 

How dark this world would be, 
If, when deceived and wounded here, 

We could not fly to Thee ! 
The friends who in our sunshine live, 

When winter comes, are flown ; 
And he who has but tears to give, 

Must weep those tears alone. 
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, 

Which, like the plants that throw 
Their fragrance from the wounded part, 

Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no losger soothes or cheers, 

And even the hope that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears 

Is dimni'd and vanish'd too, 
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, 

Did not Thy wing of love 
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom 

Our Peace-branch from above ! 



1 "For he shall be like the heath in the desert." Jer. 
xrii. 6. 

* " Take away her battlements ; for they are not the Lord's." 
Jer. v. 10. 

1 " Therelote, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that It 
ihall no more he called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of 
Hinnom. bat the Valley of Slaughter ; for they shall bury in 
Tophut till there be no place." Jer. vii. 32. 



Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright 

With more than rapture's ray ; 
As darkness shows us worlds of light 

We never saw by day ! 



BUT WHO SHALL SEE. 

BUT who shall see the glorious day 

When, throned on Zion's brow, 
The Lord shall rend that veil away 

Which hides the nations now ?' 
When earth no more beneath the fear 

Of His rebuke shall lie!' 
When pain shall cease, and every tear 

Be wiped from every eye.' 

Then, Judah, thou no more shalt moura 

Beneath the heathen's chain ; 
Thy days of splendor shall return, 

And all be new again.' 
The fount of life shall then be quaffM 

In peace by all who come ;' 
And every wind that blows shall waft 

Some long-lost exile home. 



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING 
SHOW. 

THIS world is all a fleeting show, 

For man's illusion given ; 
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow 

There's nothing true but Heaven t 

And false the light on glory's plume, 

As fading hues of even ! 
And love and hope and beauty's bloom 
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb 

There's nothing bright but Heaven ! 



1 " And he will destroy In this mountain the face of the COT- 
ering cast over all people, and the veil that is spread over all 
nations." Isa. xzv. 7. 

" The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all 
the earth." Isa. xiv. 8. 

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; 
neither shall there be any more pain." Rev. xii. 4. 

1 " And he that eat upon the throne said. Behold, I make 
all things new." Ben. zzi. 6. 

"And whosoever will, let him take the water of lift 
freely." Rev. xxil. 17. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE 



177 



Poor wand'rers of a stormy day ! 

From wave to wave we're driven, 
And fancy's flash and reason's ray 
Serve but to light the troubled way 

There's nothing calm but Heaven 1 



ALMIGHTY GOD ! 

CHORUS OP PRIESTS. 

ALMIGHTY God ! when round Thy shrine 
The palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine,' 
(Emblem of life's eternal ray, 
And love that "fadeth not away,") 
We bless the flowers, expanded all," 
We bless the leaves that never fall, 
And trembling say " In Eden thus 
The tree of life may flower for us !" 

When round Thy cherubs smiling calm, 
Without their flames' we wreathe the palm, 
O God ! we feel the emblem true 
Thy mercy is eternal too. 
Those cherubs, with their smiling eyes, 
That crown of palm which never dies, 
Are but t-he types of Thee above 
Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love ! 



SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. 

MIRIAM'S SONG. 

"And Miriam the prophetess, the Bister of Aaron, took a 
timbrel In her hand ; and all the women went oat after her 
with 'imbrelB and with dances." Exod. rv. 20. 

SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 

Jehovah has triumph'd His people are free ! 

Sing for the pride of the tyrant is broken, 

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid 

and brave 



1 4i The Scriptures* having declared that the Temple of Jeru- 
salem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that 
the Palms, which made so conspicuous a figure in that struc- 
ture, represented that Life and Immortality which were 
Drought to light by the Gospel." Observations on the Palm, as 
a sacred Emblem, by W. Tigfie. 

* *' And he carved all the walls of the house round about 
with carved figures of cherubims, and palm-trees, and open 
fanvfrs." 1 Kings, vi. 29. 

"When the paseover of the tabernacles was revealed to 
the great lawgiver on the mount, then the cherubic images 
which appeared in that structure were no longer surrounded 
by flames ; for the tabernacle was a type of the dispensation 
of mercy, by which JEHOVAH confirmed His gracious covenant 
"> reiU'pm mankind." Observations on the Palm. 



How vain was their boasting, the Lord hath 

but spoken, 
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the 

wave. 

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; 
Jehovah has triumph'd His people are free ! 

Praise to the conqueror, praise to the Lord 1 
His word was our arrow, His breath was our 

sword. 

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her 

pride ? 
For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar 

of glory,' 
And all her brave thousands are dash'd in 

the tide. 

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea 1 
Jehovah has triumph'd His people are free ! 



O FAIR ! O PUREST ! 

SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.* 

O PAIR ! O purest ! be thou the dove 
That flies alone to some sunny grove, 
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing, 
All vestal white, in the limpid spring : 
There, if the hovering hawk be near, 
That limpid spring in its mirror clear 
Reflects him, ere he can reach his prey, 
And warns the timorous bird away. 

Oh, be like this dove ; 
O fair ! O purest ! be like this dove. 

The sacred pages of God's own Book 
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook, 
In whose holy mirror, night and day, 
Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray ; 
And should the foes of virtue dare, 
With gloomy wing, to seek \iee there, 
Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie 
Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly ! 

Oh, be like this dove ; 
O fair ! O purest ! be like this dove. 



* " And it came to pass, that in the morning watch the Lord 
looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of flr 
and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians." 
Sirod. xiv. 24. 

In St. Augustine's Treatise upon the Advantages of a Soli- 
tary Life, addressed to his sister, there is a passage from whlck 
the thought of this song was taken. 



THE POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 






THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 1 

[A superstition of great beanty prevails In Ireland, that wnen 
child smiles in its sleep, it is " talking with angels."] 

A BABY was sleeping, 
Its mother was weeping, 
For her husband was far on the wild raging 

sea; 

And the tempest was swelling 
Round the fisherman's dwelling, 
And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come 
back to me !" 

Her beads while she nnmber'd, 

The baby still slumber'd, 
Ar.'l smiled in her face as she bended her knee; 

" Oh blest be that warning, 

My child, thy sleep adorning, 
For I know that the angels are whispering 
with th^e. 

"And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 



1 The beautiful superstition on which this song has been 
founded, has an Oriental as well as a Western prevalence ; and, 
In all probability reached the Irish by being borrowed from 
the Phoenicians. Amongst the Rabbinical traditions which 
are treasured by the Jews, is the belief, that before the crea- 
tion of Eve, another companion WHS assigned to Adum in Para- 
dise, who bore the name of Lilith. But proving arrogant and 
disposed to contend for tnperior.ty, a quarrel ensued ; Lilith 
pronounced the name of Jehovth, which it is forbidden to utter, 
nd fled to conceal herself iu tnc sea. Three angels, Sennoi, 
Santmnoi, and Sanunangel'jiih, were despatched by the Lord 
of the Universe to eompe' her to return ; but on her obstinate 
refusal, she was traaefornea Into a demon, whose delight li in 
debilitating and destroying i'lfants. On condition that she was 
not to be forced to go bf.ck to Paradise, she bound herself by 
an oath to refrain from minring such children as might be pro- 
ected by having n?oi iVd on them the name of the mediating 
tngels hence tlie pAC'Jce of the Eastern Jews to write the 
names of ScDnoi, bausennoi, and Sammangeloph, on slips of 
paper and bind Jie'n on their infants to protect them from 
Lilith. The story will be found in BUXTORF'S Synagoga 
Judatea. UL iv. p. 81 ; and in BEN SUIA, as edited by BABTO- 
LOCCI, In tlie nrjt volume of his BiblMheca Rattinlca, p. 69. 

Eiae'.n llaniuelech. a Rabbinical writer, quoted by STKIIK- 
Lra, ays, " when a child laughs in its sleep, in the night of the 
Sabbath, or the new moon, that Lilith laughs and toys with It, 



Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with mei 
And say thou wouldst rather 
They'd watch o'er thy father ! 

For I know that the angels are whispering 
with thee." 



And 



The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning, 
the wife wept with joy her bahe'i 

father to see ; 
And closely caressing 
Her child, with a blessing, 
Said, " I knew that the angels where whis- 
pering with thee." 



THE FAIRY BOY. 

[When a beautiful child pines and dies, the Irish pei tnt be- 
lieves the healthy infant has been stolen by the lalrica, and 
sickly elf left in its place.] 

A MOTHER came when stars were paling, 

Wailing round a lonely spring ; 
Thus she cried, while tears were falling, 

Calling on the Fairy King : 
"Why, with spells my child caressing, 

Courting him with fairy joy, 
Why destroy a mother's blessing, 

Wherefore steal my baby-boy ? 

" O'er the mountain, through the wild-wood, 
Where his childhood loved to play, 

Where the flowers are freshly springing, 
There I wander day by day ; 



and that it IB proper for the mother, or any one that see* UM 
infant laugh, to tap it on the nose, and say ' Lilith. be iron* t 
thy abode is not here.' This should be said three time*, and 
each repetition accompanied by a gentle tap." See Alien i Ao 
count of the TradUlont, Riles, and CeremonUt of the Jewi, cb, 
x. p. 168-9 ch. ivi. p. S91. 



180 



j-OEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



There I wander, growing fonder 
Of the child that made my joy, 

On the echoes wildly calling 
To restore my fairy boy. 

"But in vain my plaintive calling, 

Tears are falling all in vain, 
He now sports with fairy pleasure, 

He's the treasure of their train ! 
Fare thee well ! my child, forever, 

In this world I've lost my joy, 
But in the next we ne'er shall sever, 

There I'll find my angel boy." 



TRUE LOVE CAN NE'ER FORGET. 

[It IB related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived 
of sight, and after a lapse of twenty years, he recognized his 
first love by the touch of her hand. The lady'i name was 
Bridget Cruise ; and though not a pretty name, it deserves to 
be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire 
inch a passion.] 

" TRUE love can ne'er forget ; 
'Fondly as when we met, 
'.Dearest, I love thee yet, 

My darling one !" 
Thus sung a minstrel gray 
His sweet impassion'd lay, 
.Down by the Ocean's spray, 

At set of sun. 

But wither'd was the minstrel's sight, 
Morn to him was dark as night, 
'Yet his heart was full of light, 

As thus the lay begun : 
" True love can ne'er forget ; 
Fondly as when we met, 
Dearest, I love thee yet, 

My darling one !" 

" Long years are past and o'er, 
Since from this fatal shore 
Cold hearts and cold winds bore 

My love from me." 
Scarcely the minstrel spoke, 
When forth, with flashing stroke, 
A boat's light oar the silence broke, 

Over the sea. 

Soon upon her native strand 
Doth a lovely lady land, 



While the minstrel's love-taught hand 
Did o'er his wild harp run : 

" True love can ne'er forget ; 

Fondly as when we met, 

Dearest, I love thee yet, 
My darling one !" 

Where the minstrel sat alone, 
There that lady fair had gone, 
Within his hand she placed her own. 

The bard dropp'd on his knee ; 
From his lips soft blessings cami 1 , 
He kiss'd her hand with truest flame, 
In trembling tones he named her name, 

Though her he could not see ; 
But oh ! the touch the bard could tell 
Of .that dear hand, remember'd well. 
Ah ! by many a secret spell 

Can true love find his own ; 
For true love can ne'er forget ; 
Fondly as when they met, 
He loved his lady yet, 

1 1 is darling one ! 



NYMPH OF NIAGARA. 

NYMPH OF NIAGARA ! Sprite of the mist ! 
With a wild magic my brow thou hast kiss'd ; 
I am thy slave, and my mistress art thou, 
For thy wild kiss of magic is yet on my brow. 1 

I feel it as first when I knelt before thee, 
With thy emerald robe flowing brightly and 

free, 1 
Fringed with the spray-pearls, and floating 

in mist 
Thus 'twas my brow with wild magic you 

kiss'd. 

Thine am I still ; and I'll never forget 
The moment the spell on my spirit was set ; 
Thy chain but a foam-wreath yet stronger 

by far 
Than the manacle, steel- wrought, for captive 

of war ; 



1 Written Immediately after leaving the Falls. 
The water in the centra of the great fall in totensely green, 
and of gem like brilliancy. 




PS 
H 
PU 

cfl 

E 



CQ 
J 
w 
CJ 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



181 



For the steel it will rust, and the war will be 

o'er, 

And the manacled captive be free as before ; 
While the foam-wreath will bind me forever 

to thee ! 
_ love the enslavement and would not be 

free ! 

Nymph of Niagara ! play with the breeze, 
Sport with the fauns 'mid the old forest trees ; 
Blush into rainbows at kiss of the sun, 
From the gleam of his dawn till his bright 
course be run ; 

Pll not be jealous for pure is thy sporting, 
Heaven-born is all that around thee is court- 
ing 

Still will I love thee, sweet Sprite of the mist, 
At first when my brow with wild magic you 
kiss'd ! 



HOW TO ASK AND HAVE. 

" OH, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, 

Sweet Mary," says I ; 
" Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, 

Beginning to cry : 
" For my mother says men are deceivers, 

And never, I know, will consent ; 
SLe says girls in a hurry who marry 

At leisure repent." 

" Then, suppose I would talk to your father, 

Sweet Mary," says I ; 
" Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, 

Beginning to cry : 
" For my father, he loves me so dearly, 

He'll never consent I should go 
If you talk to my father," says Mary, 

" He'll surely say ' No.' " 

" Then how jhall I get you, my jewel ? 

Sweet Mary," says I ; 
"If your father and mother's so cruel, 

Most surely I'll die !" 
" Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary ; 

"A way now to save you, I see : 
Since my parents are both so contrary 

You'd better ask me." 



THE LAND OF THE WEST. 

OH ! come to the West, love, oh, come 

there with me ; 
"Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs 

from the sea, 
Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald 

throne ; 
Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee 

my own ! 
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee 

the best, 
And you'll say there's no land like the land 

of the West. 

The South has its roses and bright skies of 

blue, 
But ours are more sweet with love's own 

changeful hue 
Half sunshine, half tears, like the girl I 

love best, 

Oh ! what is the South to the beautiful West J 
Then come to the West, and the rose on thy 

mouth 
Will be sweeter to me than the flowers of the 

South ! 

The North has its snow-towers of dazzling 

array, 
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er-setting 

day; 
There the Storm-King may dwell in the kails 

he loves best, 
But the soft-breathing Zephyr he plays in 

the West. 
Then come there with me, where no cold 

wind doth blow, 
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the 

snow I 

The Sun in the gorgeous East chaseth the 

night 
When he riseth, refresh'd, in his glory and 

might. 
But where doth he go when he seeks hia 

sweet rest ? 

Oh ! doth he not haste to the beautiful West ? 
Then come there with me : 'tis the land I 

love best, 
'Tis the land of my sires I 'tis my own dar 

ling West ! 



182 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



BWEET HARP OF THE DAYS THAT 
ARE GONE. 

TO THE IRISH HARP. 

On, give me one strain 
Of that wild harp again, 

In melody proudly its own ! 
Sweet harp of the days that are gone ! 
Time's wide-wasting wing 
Its cold shadow may fling 

Where the light of the soul hath n 

part; 

The sceptre and sword 
Both decay with their lord 

But the throne of the bard, is the heart. 

And hearts, while they beat 
To thy music so sweet, 

Thy glories will ever prolong, 
Land of honor and beauty and song ! 
The beauty, whose sway 
Woke the bard's votive lay, 

Hath gone to eternity's shade, 
While, fresh in its fame, 
Lives the song to her name, 

Which the minstrel immortal hath 
made ! 



YIELD NOT, THOU SAD ONK, TO 
SIGHS. 

OH yield not, thou sad one, to sighs, 

Nor murmur at Destiny's will. 
Behold, for each pleasure that flies, 

Another replacing it still. 
Time's wing, were it all of one feather, 

Far slower would be in its flight ; 
The storm gives a charm to fine weather, 

And day would seem dark without night. 
Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs. 

When we look on some lake that repeats 
The loveliness bounding its shore, 

A breese o'er the soft surface fleets, 
And the mirror-like beauty is o'er : 

But the breeze, ere it ruffled the deep, 
Pervading the odorous bowers, 

Awaken'd the flowers from their sleep, 



And wafted their sweets to be ours. 

Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs. 

Oh, blame not the change nor the flight 

Of our joys as they're passing away, 
'Tis the swiftness and change give delight 

They would pall if permitted to stay. 
More gayly they glitter in flying, 

They perish in lustre still bright, 
Like the hues of the dolphin, in dying, 

Or humming-bird's wing in its flight. 

Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs. 



WIDOW MACHREE. 

WIDOW Machree, it's no wonder you frown, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree; 
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty 
black gown, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree; 
How alter'd your air, 
With that close cap you wear 
'Tis destroying your hair, 

Which should be flowing free ; 
Be no longer a churl 
Of its black silken curl, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree .' 

Widow Machree, now the summer is come, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree : 
When everything smiles, should a beauty 
look glum ? 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
See the birds go in pairs, 
And the rabbits and hares 
Why even the bears 

Now in couples agree ; 
And the mute little fish, 
Though they can't spake, they wish, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

*Vidow Machree, and when winter comes in, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree, 
\> be poking the fire all alone is a sin, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 
ure the shovel and tongs 
\> each other belongs, 
.nd the kettle sings songs 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



183 



Full of family glee ; 
While alone with your cup, 
Like a hermit, you sup, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

And how do you know, with the comforts 
I've towld, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree, 
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in 
the cowld ? 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
With such sins on your head 
Sure your peace would be fled ; 
Could you sleep in your bed 

Without thinking to see 
Some ghost or some sprite, 
That would wake you each night, 

Crying, " Och hone ! Widow Machree ?" 

Then take my advice, darling Widow Ma- 
chree, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take 
me, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
You'd have me to desire, 
Then to sit by the fire, 
And sure Hope is no liar 

In whispering to me, 
That the ghosts would depart, 
When you'd me near your heart, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 



MOLLY BAWN. 

O ! MOLLY BAWN, why leave me pining, 

All lonely waiting here for you ? 
The stars above are brightly shining 

Because they've nothing else to do. 
The flowers, late, were open keeping, 

To try a rival blush with you, 
But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping, 

With their rosy faces wash'd with dew. 
O ! Molly, &c. 

Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, 

dear, 

And the pretty stars were made to shine, 
And the pretty girls were made for the boys, 

dear, 
And maybe you were made for mine ! 



The wicked watch-dog here is snarling 
He takes me for a thief, you see ; 

For he knows I'd steal you, Molly darling 
And then transported I should be. 

O ! Molly, <fcc. 



MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY. 

Mother. 

Now what are you crying for, Nelly ? 

Don't be blubbering there like a fool ; 
With the weight o' the grief, -faith, I tell you 

You'll break down the three-legged stool. 
I suppose now you're crying for Barney, 

But don't b'lieve a word that he'd say, 
He tells nothing but big lies and blarney, 

Sure you know how he sarved poor Kata 
Karney. 

Daughter. 
But, mother ! 

Mother. 
Oh, bother 1 

Daughter. 

Oh, mother, he's going away, 

And I dreamt the other night 
Of his ghost all in white ! 

[Mother speaks in an undertone. 
The dirty blackguard !] 

Daughter. 
Ob, mother, he's going away. 

Mother. 

If he's going away all the betther, 

Blessed hour when he's out o' your sight 
There's one comfort you can't get a letther 

For yiz 1 neither can read nor can write. 
Sure, 'twas only last week you protested, 

Since he coorted fat Jinney M'Cray, 
That the sight o' the scamp you detested 

With abuse sure your tongue nevei 
rested 



Ye. 



184 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



Daughter. 
But, mother 1 

Mother. 
Oh, bother ! 

Daughter. 
Oh, mother, he's going away ! 

[Mother, speaking again with peculiar paren- 
tal piety, 
May he never come hack !] 

Daughter. 

And I dream of his ghost 
Walking round my bedpost 
Oh, mother, he's going away ! 



THE QUAKER'S MEETING. 

A TRAVELLER wended the wilds among, 
With a purse of gold and a silver tongue ; 
His hat it was broad and all drab were his 

clothes, 

For he hated high colors except on his nose, 
And he met with a lady, the story goes. 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

The damsel she cast him a beamy blink, 
And the traveller nothing was loth, I think ; 
Her merry black eye beam'd her bonnet 

beneath, 
And the Quaker he grinn'd for he'd very 

good teeth. 
And he ask'd, " Art thee going to ride on 

the heath ?" 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said 

the maid, 

" As to ride this heath over I'm sadly afraid ; 
For robbers, . they say, here in numbers 

abound, 
And I wouldn't ' for anything' I should be 

found, 
For between you and me I have five 

hundred pound." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 



"If that is thee 1 own, dear," the Quaker he 

said, 

" I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed ; 
And I have another five hundred just now, 
In the padding that's under my saddle-bow. 
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow !" 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay the*. 

The maiden she smiled, and her rein she drew, 
" Your offer I'll take though I'll not take 

you." 

A piptol she held at the Quaker's head 
" Now give me your gold or I'll give you 

my lead 
"Tis under the saddle I think you said." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

The damsel she ripp'd up the saddle-bow, 
And the Quaker was never a Quaker till now, 
And he saw, by the fair one he wish'd for a 

bride, 
His purse borne away with a swaggering 

stride, 
And the eye that shamm'd tender, now only 

defied. 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

" The spirit doth move me, friend Broad- 
brim," quoth she, 

" To take all this filthy temptation from thee, 

For Mammon deceiveth and beauty is fleet- 
ing ; 

Accept from thy maaicFn a right loving 

greeting, 

For much doth she profit by this Quaker's 
meeting." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

" And hark ! jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly, 
Have righteousness, more than a wench, in 

thine eye, 

Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath, 
Remember the one that you met on the 

heath, 
Her name's Jimmy Barlow I tell to your 

teeth !" 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 



* .The inferior class of Quakers make thet serve not only la 
1U true grammatical nee, bat also to do the duty of fiou, tky, 
and thine. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER 



185 



"Friend James," quoth the Quaker, "pray 

listen to me, 

For thou canst confer a great favor, d'ye see ; 
The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my 

friend, 

But my master's and truly on thee I depend, 
To make it appear I my trust did defend." 
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

"So fire a few shots through my clothes, 

here and there, 

To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair.'' 
So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of 

his coat, 
And then through his collar quite close to 

his throat ; 
" Now one through my broadbrim," quoth 

Ephraim, " I vote." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

" I have but a brace," said bold Jim, " and 
they're spent, 

And I won't load again for a make-believe 
rent." 

" Then" said Ephraim, producing his pis- 
tols "just give 

My five hundred pounds back or as sure as 
you live 

I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

Jim Barlow was diddled -and, though he 

was game, 

He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim, 
That he gave up the gold, and he took to 

his scrapers ; 
And when the whole story got into the 

papers, 
They said that " the thieves were no match 

for the Quakers.' 1 '' 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 



NATIVE MUSIC. 

OH ! native music ! beyond comparing 
The sweetest far on the ear that falls, 

Thy gentle numbers the heart remembers, 
Thy strains enchain us in tender thralls. 



Thy tones endearing, 

Or sad or cheering, 
The absent soothe on a foreign strand ; 

Ah ! who can tell 

What a holy spell 
IB in the song of our native land ? 

The proud and lowly, the pilgrim holy, 

The lover, kneeling at beauty's shrine, 
The bard who dreams by the haunted 

streams, 

All, all are touch'd by thy power divine ! 
The captive cheerless, 
The soldier fearless ; 
The mother taught by Nature's hand 
Her child when weeping, 
Will lull to sleeping, 
With some sweet song of her native land t 



THE CHARM. 

[They My that a flower may be found In a valley opening to 
the West, which bestows on the finder the power of winning 
the affection of the person to whom It Is presented. Hence, 
It Is supposed, has originated the custom of presenting a 
bonquet.] 

THBY say there's a secret charm which lies 

In some wild floweret's bell, 
That grows in a vale where the west wind 
sighs, 

And where secrets best may dwell ; 
And they who can find the fairy flower, 

A treasure possess that might grace a 

throne ; 
For, oh ! they can rule with the softest power 

The heart they would make their own. 

The Indian has toil'd in the dusky mine, 

For the gold that has made him a slave ; 
Or, plucking the pearl from the sea-god's 
shrine, 

Has tempted the wrath of the wave; 
But ne'er has he sought, with a love like mine, 

The flower that holds the heart in thrall : 
Oh ! rather I'd win that charm divine, 

Than their gold and their pearl and alL 

I've sought it by day, from morn till ev, 
I've won it in dreams at night ; 



Ihb 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



And thon how I grieve my couch to leave, 
And sigh at the morning's light : 

Yet sometimes I think in a hopeful hour, 
The blissful moment I yet may see 

TJ win the fair flower from the fairy's bower 
And give it, love to thee. 



THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 

[A four-leaved Shamrock is of such rarity that It IB supposed 
to endue the finder with magic power.] 

I'LL seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the 
fairy dells, 

And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how 
I'll weave my spells ! 

I would not waste my magic might on dia- 
mond, pearl, or gold, 

For treasure tires the weary sense, such 
triumph is but cold ; 

But I would play the enchanter's part, in 
casting bliss around, 

Oh ! not a tear, nor aching heart, should in 
the world be found ! 

To worth I would give honor ! I'd dry the 
mourner's tears, 

And to the pallid lip recall the smile of hap- 
pier years, 

And hearts that had been long estranged, 
and friends that had grown cold, 

Should meet again like parted streams 
and mingle as of old ; 

Oh ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus 
scatter bliss around, 

And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in 
the world be found ! 

The heart that had been mourning o'er van- 

ish'd dreams of love, 
Should see them all returning like Noah's 

faithful dove, 
And Hope should launch her blessed bark 

on Sorrow's darkening sea, 
And Misery's children have an ark, and 

saved from sinking be ; 
OL ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus 

scatter bliss around, 
A.i*l not a tear, nor aching heart, should in 

the world be found! 



OH! WATCH YOU WELL BY 
DAYLIGHT. 

[The IriBh peasant says, " Watch well by daylight, for then 
your own senses are awake to guard you : but keep no watch 
In darkness, for then God watches over you." This, however, 
can hardly be called a superstition, there ie so much of righifvl 
reverence in It : for though, in perfect truth, we are as depend- 
ent on God by day as by night, yet Borne allowance mar b 
made for the poetic fondness of the saying.] 

OH, watch you well by daylight, 

By daylight may you fear, 
But take no watch in darkness 

The angels then are near : 
For Heaven the gift bestoweth 

Our waking life to keep, 
But tender mercy showeth 

To guard us in our sleep. 

Then watch you well by daylight. 

Oh, watch you well in pleasure, 

For pleasure oft betrays, 
But take no Watch in sorrow, 

When joy withdraws its rays : 
For iu the hour of sorrow, 

As in the darkness drear, 
To Heaven intrust the morrow 

The angels then are near. 

Then watch you well by daylight 






RORY OuviORE; OR, GOOD OMENS. 

YOUNG ROEY O'MoEK courted Kathleen 

Bawn, 
He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the 

dawn ; 
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to 

please, 
And he thought the best way to do that was 

to tease. 
"Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen 

would cry, 

(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,) 
" With your tricks I don't know, in troth, 

what I'm about ; 
Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak 

inside out." 
; 'Oh ! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the 

way 
You've thrated my heart this many a day ; 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



187 






And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not to be 

sure ? 
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory 

O'More. 

Indeed then," says Kathleen, " don't think 

of the like, 

For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike : 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be 

bound." 
" Faith," says Rory, " I'd rather love you 

than the ground." 

" Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; 
Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating 

you so !" 
" Oh," says Rory, " that same I'm delighted 

to hear, 
For drames always go by conthrairies, my 

dear ; 
Oh ! jewel, keep draining that same till you 

die, 
And bright morning will give dirty night 

the black lie ! 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not to be 

sure? 
Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory 

O'More. 

" Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased 

me enough, 
Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny 

Grimes and Jim Duff; 
And I've made myself, drinking your health, 

quite a baste, 
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest.'" 1 
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round 

her neck, 

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, 
And he look'd in her eyes that were beam- 
ing with light, 
And he kiss'd her sweet lips; don't you 

think he was right ? 
" Now, Rory, leave off, sir ; you'll hug me 

no more, 
That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me 

before." 
"Then here goes another," says he, "to 

make sure, 
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory 

O'More. 



THE BLARNEY. 

[There is a certain coign-stone on the summit ol Blarney 
Castle, In the county of Cork, the kissing of which Is said to 
impart the gift of persuasion. Hence tne phrase, applied to 
those who make a nattering speech " You've kissed the 
Blarney Stone."] 



OH ! did you ne'er hear of " the Blarney," 
That's found near the banks of Killarney ? 
Believe it from me, 
No girl's heart is free, 
Once she hears the sweet sound of the 

Blarney. 

For the Blarney's so great a deceiver, 
That a girl thinks you're there, though you 
leave her ; 

And never finds out 
All the tricks you're about, 
Till she's quite gone herself, with your 
Blarney. 

Oh 1 say, would you find this same " Blat- 

ney?" 

There's a castle not far from Killarney, 
On the top of its wall 
(But take care you don't fall) 
There's a stone that contains all this Blar- 
ney. 

Like a magnet, its influence such is, 
That attraction it gives all it touches ; 
If you kiss it, they say, 
From that blessed day, 
You may kiss whom you please with your 
Blarney. 



Paddy's mode of askin f? a girl to name the dy- 



THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 

[The Earl of Kildare, Lord-Deputy of Ireland, ruled Justly, 
and was hated by the email oppressors whose practices he dis- 
countenanced. They accused him of favoring the Irish to the 
Kind's detriment, but he, in the presence of the Eing, rebut- 
ted Their calumnies. They said, at last, " Please your High- 
ness all Ireland cannot rule this Earl."" Then." said Henry 
" he is the man to rule all Ireland," and he took tb" golden 
chain from his neck and threw it over the shoulder! ol thi 
Earl, who returned, with honor, to his government.] 

OH, Moina, I've a tale to tell 

Will glad thy soul, my girl : 
The King hath given a chain of gold 

To our noble-hearted EarL 



188 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



His foes, they rail'd the Earl ne'er quail'd- 

But, with a front so bold, 
Before the King did backward fling 

The slinderous lies they told : 
And the King gave him no iron chain 

No he gave him a chain of gold ! 

Oh, 'tis a noble sig>ht to see 

The cause of truth prevail : 
An honest cause is always proof 

Against a treacherous tale. 
Let fawning false ones court the great, 

The heart in virtue bold 
Will hold the right, in power's despite, 

Until that heart be cold : 
For falsehood's the bond of slavery, 

But truth is the chain of gold. 

False Connal wed the rich one 

With her gold and jewels rare, 
But Dermid wed the maid he loved, 

And she clear'd his brow from care : 
And thus, in our own hearts, love, 

We may read this lesson plain, 
Let outward joys depart, love, 

So peace within remain 
For falsehood is an iron bond, 

But love is the golden chain ! 



GIVE ME MY ARROWS AND GIVE 
ME MY BOW. 

[In the Great North American lakes there are islands bear- 
ing the name of " Manltw," which signifies " TH GREAT 
SPIRIT, " and Indian tradition declares that in these islands 
the Oreat Spirit concealed the precious metals, thereby show- 
Ing that he did not desire they should be possessed by man ; 
and that whenever some rash mortal has attempted to obtain 
treasure from "The Manitou Isle," his canoe was always 
overwhelmed by s> tempest. The " Palefaces," however, fear- 
less of " Manitou's" thunder, are now working the extensive 
-lineral region of the lakes.] 

TEMPT me not, stranger, with gold from the 

mine, 

/I have got treasure more precious than thine, 
Freedom in forest, and health in the chase, 
Where the hunter sees beauty in Nature's 

bright face : 

Then give me my arrows and give me my bow, 
In the wild-woods to rove where the blue 

rapids flow. 



If gold had been good, THE GREAT SPIBIT 

had given 
That gift, like his others, as freely from 

heaven ; 
The lake gives me whitefish. the deer gives 

me meat, 
And the toil of the capture gives slumber so 

sweet : 

Then give me my arrows and pive me my bow, 
In the wild-woods to rove where the blue 

rapids flow. 

Why seek you death in the dark cave to find, 
While there's life on the hill in the health- 
breathing wind? 
And death parts you soon from your treasure 

so bright 
As the gold of the sunset is lost in the night 
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow 
In the wild-woods to rove where the blu 
rapids flow. 



THE HOUR BEFORE DAY. 

[There Is a beautiful saying amongst the Irish peasantry to 
Inspire hope under adverse circumstances : " Remember," 
they say, " that the darkest hoar of all IB the hoar before day."] 

BEKEFT of his love, and bereaved of his fame, 
A knight to the cell of an old hermit came : 
"My foes, they have slander'd and forced 

me to fly, 
Oh ! tell me, good father, what's left but to 

die?" 
" Despair not, my son ; thou'lt be righted 

ere long 

For heaven is above us to right all the wrong ; 
Remember the words the old hermit doth 

say, 
'Tis always the darkest the hour before day !' 

' Then back to the tourney, and back to the 

court, 

And join thee, the bravest, in chivalry's sport; 
Thy foes will be there and thy lady-love too, 
And show both thou'rt a knight that is gal- 
lant and true !" 
Ie rode in the lists all his foes he o'erthrew, 






POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



189 






And a sweet glance he caught from a soft 

eye of blue : 
And he thought of the words the old hermit 

did say, 
For her glance wan as bright as the dawning 

of day. 

The feast it was late in the castle that night, 

And the banquet was beaming with beauty 
and light ; 

But brightest of all is the lady who glides 

To a porch where a knight with a fleet 
courser bides. 

She paused 'neath the arch, at the fierce ban- 
dog's bark, 

She trembled to look on the night 'twas so 
dark; 

But her lover he whisper'd, and thus did he 
say : 

u Sweet love, it is darkest the hour before 
day." 



MACARTHY'S GRAVE. 

A LEGEND OP EILLARNEY. 

THE breeze was fresh, the morn was fair, 
The stag had left his dewy lair. 
To cheering horn and baying tongue 
Killarney's echoes sweetly rung. 
With sweeping oar and bending mast, 
The eager chase was following fast, 
When one light skiff a maiden steer'd 
Beneath the deep wave disappear'd : 
While shouts of terror wildly ring, 
A boatman brave, with gallant spring 
And dauntless arm, the lady bore 
But he who saved was seen no more ! 

Where weeping birches wildly wave, 

There boatmen show their brother's grave, 

And while they tell the name he bore, 

Suspended hangs the lifted oar. 

The silent drops thus idly shed, 

Seem like tears to gallant Ned ; 

And while gently gliding by, 

The tale is told with moistening eye. 

No ripple on the slumb'ring lake 

Unhallow'd oar doth ever make ; 

All undisturb'd the placid wave 

Flows gently o'er Macarthy's grave. 



ST. KEVIN. 

A LEGEND OP GLENDA.LOUGH 

AT- Glendalough lived a young saint. 

In odor of sanctity dwelling, 
An old-fashion'd odor, which now 

We seldom or never are smelling ; 
A book or a hook were to him 

The utmost extent of his wishes ; 

, a snatch at the " Lives of the Saints ;" 

Then, a catch at the lives of the fishes. 

There was a young woman one day, 

Stravagin 1 along by the lake, sir ; 
She look'd hard at St. Kevin, they say, 

But St. Kevin no notice did take, sir. 
When she found looking hard wouldn't do, 

She look'd soft in the old sheep's eye 

fashion ; 
But, with all her sheep's eyes, she could not 

In St. Kevin see signs of soft passion. 

" You're a great hand at fishing," says Kate , 
" 'Tis yourself that knows how, faith, to 

hook them ; 
But, when you have caught them, agra, 
Don't you want a young woman to cook 

them?" 
Says the saint, " I am ' sayrious inclined,'' 

I intend taking orders for life, dear." 
" Only marry," says Kate, " and you'll find 
You'll get orders enough from your wife, 
dear." 

" You shall never be flesh of my flesh," 

Says the saint, with an anchorite groan, 

sir; 
" I see that myself," answer'd Kate, 

" I can only be ' bone of your bone,' sir. 
And even jour bones are so scarce," 

Said Miss Kate, at her answers so glib, 

sir, 
" That I think you would not be the worse 

Of a little additional rib, sir." 

The saint, in a rage, seized the lass, 

He gave her one twirl round his head, sir, 

And, before Doctor Arnott's invention, 
Prescribed her a watery bed, sir. 



Sauntering. 



190 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



Oh ! cruel St. Kevin ! for shame ! 

When a lady her heart came to barter, 
You should not have been Knight of the Bath 

But have bow'd to the order of Garter. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 



[The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called 
" The Indian summer" a reflex, as It were, of the early pot 
tion of the year strikes a stranger In America aa peculiar!, 
beautiful, and quite charmed me.] 

WHEN summer's verdant beauty flies, 
And Autumn glows with richer dyes, 
A softer charm beyond them lies 

It is the Indian summer. 
Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze 
Bereave of beauty all the trees, 
The balmly spring renewal sees 

In the sweet Indian summer. 

And thus, dear love, if early years 
Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears, 
A later gleam of hope appears 

Just like the Indian summer: 
And ere the snows of age descend, 
Oh trust me, dear one, changeless friend, 
Our falling years may brightly end 

Just like the Indian summer. 



THE WAR-SHIP OF PEACE. 

[The Americans exhibited much sympathy toward Ireland 
rhen the famine raged there in 1S47. A touching instance 
was then given how the better feelings of our nature may 
employ even the enginery of destruction to serve the cause of 
humanity ; an American frigate (the Jamestown, I believe), 
was dismantled of all her warlike appliances, and placed at the 
disposal of the charitable to carry provisions.] 

SWEET Land of Song ! thy harp doth hang 
v Upon the willows now, 
While famine's blight and fever's pang 

Stamp misery on thy brow ; 
Yet take thy harp, and raise thy voice, 

Though faint and low it be, 
And let thy sinking heart rejoice 

In friends still left to thee ! 



Look out-^look out across the sea 

That girds thy emerald shore, 
A ship of war is bound for thee, 

But with no warlike store ; 
Her thunder sleeps 'tis Mercy's breath 

That wafts her o'er the sea ; 
She goes not forth to deal put death, 

But bears new life to thee ! 

Thy wasted hand can scarcely strike 

The chords of grateful praise ; 
Thy plaintive tone is now unlike 

Thy voice of former days ; 
Yet, even in sorrow, tuneful still, 

Let Erin's voice proclaim 
In bardic praise, on every hill, 

Columbia's glorious name ! 



AN HONEST HEART TO GUIDE U& 

As day by day 

We hold our way 
Through this wild world below, boys, 

With roads so cross, 

We're at a loss 
To know which way to go, boys : 

With choice so vex'd 

When man's perplex'd, 
And many a doubt has tried hiui, 

It is not long 

He'll wander wrong, 
With an honest heart to guide him, 

When rough the way, 

And dark the day, 
More steadfastly we tread, boys, 

Than when by flowers 

In wayside bowers 
We from the path are led, boys : 

Oh ! then beware 

The serpent there 
Is gliding close beside us; 

'Twere death to stay 

So speed the way, 
With an honest heart to guide us. 

If fortune's gale 
Should fill our sail, 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



191 



While others lose the wind, boys, 

Look kindly back 

Upon the track 
Of luckless mates behind, boys: 

If we won't heed 

A friend in need, 
May rocks ahead abide us ! 

Let's rather brave 

Both wind and wave, 
With an honest heart to guide us ! 



THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK. 

ON the eighth day of March it was, some 

people say, 
That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw 

the day ; 
While others declare 'twas the ninth he was 

born, 
And 'twas all a mistake between midnight 

and morn ; 

For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock, 
And some blamed the babby and some 

blamed the clock 
"Till with all their cross questions sure no 

one could know, 
If tho child was too fast or the clock was 

too slow. 

Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, 

they say, 

Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birth- 
day, 
Some fought for the eighth for the ninth 

more would die, 
And who wouldn't see right, sure they 

blacken'd his eye ! 

At last, both the factions so positive grew, 
That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had 

two, 
'Till Father Mulcahy, who show'd them their 

sins, 
Said " No one could have two birthdays, but 

a twins." 

Says he, " Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or 

for nine, 
Doii't be always dividin' but sometimes 

combine ; 



Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is 

the mark, 
So let that be his birthday." " Amen," saya 

the clerk. 
" If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will 

show 
That, at least, he's worth any two saints that 

we know !" 
Then they all got blind dhrunk which com- 

plated their bliss, 
And we keep up the practice from that day 

to this. 



THE ARAB. 

[The Interesting fact on which thin ballad Is founded occur- 
red to Mr. Davidson, the celebrated traveller, between Mount 
Sinai and Suez, on hie overland retnm from India In 1839. He 
related the story to me shortly before his leaving England on 
his last fatal journey to Timbuctoo.] 

THE noontide blaze on the desert fell, 
As the traveller reach'd the wish'd-for well ; 
But vain was the hope that cheer'd him on, 
His hope in the desert the waters were 
gone. 

Fainting, he call'd on the Holy Name, 
And swift o'er the desert an Arab came, 
And with him he brought of the blessed thing 
That fail'd the poor traveller at the spring. 

" Drink !" said the Arab, " though I must 

fast, 

For half of my journey is not yet past ; 
'Tis long e'er my home or my children I 

see, 
But the crystal treasure I'll share with thee." 

" Nay," said the weary one, " let me die, 
For thou hast even more need than I ; 
And children hast thou that are watching 

for thee, 
And lam a lone one none watch for rr.e." 

"Drink!" said the Arab. "My children 

shall see 

Their father returning fear not for me : 
For HE who hath sent me to thee this day, 
Will watch o'er me on my desert way." 



192 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



FAG-AN-BEALACH. 1 

[This song occurs in a scene of political excitement de- 
scribed in the Btory of " He would be a Gentleman," but 
might equally belong to many other periods of the history of 
Ireland, a harassed land, which has been forced to nurse In 
ecret many a deep and dread desire.] 

FILL the cup, my brothers, 

To pledge a toast, 
Which, beyond all others, 

We prize the most ; 
As yet 'tin but a notion 

Wi ("are not name ; 
But soon o'er land and ocean 

'Twill fly with fame I 
Then give the game before us 

One view holla, 
Hip ! hurra ! in chorus, 

Fag-an-Bealach. 

We our hearts can fling, boys, 

O'er this notion, 
As the sea-bird's wing, boys, 

Dips the ocean. 
Tis too deep for words, boys, 

The thought we know, 
So, like the ocean bird, boys, 

We touch and go ; 
For dangers deep surrounding, 

Our hopes might swallow ; 
So, through the tempest bounding, 
Fag-an-Bealach. 

This thought with glory rife, boys, 

Did brooding dwell, 
'Till time did give it life, boys, 

To break the shell ; 
'Tis in our hearts yet lying, 

An unfledged thing, 
But soon, an eaglet flying, 

"IVill take the wing ! 
For 'tis no timeling frail, boys, 

No summer swallow, 
'Twill live through winter's gale, boys, 
Fag-an-Bealach. 

T 

Lawyers may indite us 

By crooked laws, 
Soldiers strive to fright us 
From country's cause ; 



But we will sustain it 

Living dying 
Point of law or bay'net 

Still defying ! 
Let their parchment rattle- 

Drums are hollow 
So is lawyers' prattle 

Fag-an-Bealach. 

Better early graves, boys 

Dark locks gory, 
Than bow the head as slaves, boy, 

When they're hoary. 
Fight it out we must, boys, 

Hit or miss it, 
Better bite the dust, boys, 

Than to kiss it ! 
For dust to dust at last, boys 

Death will H\vallow 
Hark I the trumpet's blast, boys, 
Fag-an-Bealach. 



i'ronounced Fuug-a-boUagh, meaning " cleor the road," 
" dear the way." 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

[The mystery attendant upon the Councils of Venice In 
cveased the terror of their rule. A covered bridge betweea 
the Ducal palace and the State prison served as a private pas- 
sage, by which suspected or condemned persons were trans- 
ferred at once from examination to the dungeon hence It wai 
called " The Bridge of Sighu."] 

ABOVE the sparkling waters, 

Where Venice crowns the tide, 
Behold the home of sorrow 

So near the home of pride ; 
A palace and a prison 

Beside each other rise, 
And, dark between, a link is seen 

It is " The Bridge of Sighs." 

Row, gondolier, row fast, row fast, 
Until that fatal bridge be past. 

But not alone in Venice 

Are joy and grief so near ; 
To-day the smile may waken, 

To-morrow wake the tear ; 
'Tis next the " House of mourning" 

That Pleasure's palace lies, 
'Twixt joy and grief the passage brief 

Just like " The Bridge of Sighs." 

Row, gondolier, row fast, row fast, 
Until that fatal bridge be past 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



193 






Who seeks for joy unclouded, 

Must never seek it here ; 
But in a purer region 

And in a brighter sphere ; 
To lead the way before us, 

Bright hope unfailing flies : 
This earth of eurs, to Eden's bowers 

IB but a " Bridge of Sighs." 

Fly, fly, sweet hope, fly fast, fly fast, 
Until that bridge of sighs be past. 




THE CHILD AND AUTUMN LEAF. 

DOW.N by the river's bank I stray'd 

Upon an autumn day; 
Beside the fading forest there, 

I saw a child at play. 
She play'd among the yellow leaves 

The leaves that once were green, 
And flung upon the passing stream, 

What once had blooming been : 
Oh ! deeply did it touch my heart 

To see that child at play ; 
It w*s the sweet unconscious sport 

( if childhood with decay. 

? air child, if by this stream you stray, 

When after-years go by, 
The scene that makes thy childhood's sport, 

May wake thy age's sigh : 
When fast you see around you fall 

The summer's leafy pride, 
And mark the river hurrying on 

Its ne'er-returning tide ; 
Then may you feel, in pensive mood, 

That life's a summer dream ; 
And man, at last, forgotten falls 

A leaf upon the stream. 



FORGIVE, BUT DON'T FORGET. 

I'M going, Jessie, far from thee, 
To distant lands beyond the sea ; 
I would not, Jessie, leave thee now, 
With anger's cloud upon thy brow. 
Remember that thy mirthful friend 
Might sometimes tease., but ne'er offend ; 



That mirthful friend is sad the while, 
Oh, Jessie, give a parting smile. 

Ah, why should friendship jarshly chid* 
Our little faults on either side ? 
From friends we love we bear with those, 
As thorns are pardon'd for the rose : 
The honey-bee, on busy wing, 
Producing sweets yet bears a sting ; 
The purest gold most needs alloy, 
And sorrow is the nurse of joy. 

Then, oh ! forgive me, ere I part, 
And if some corner in thy heart 
For absent friend a place might be 
Ah ! keep that little place for me ! 
" Forgive Forget," we're wisely told, 
Is held a maxim good and old ; 
But half the maxim's better yet : 
Then, oh ! forgive, but don't forget! 



THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. 

THB hour was pad I left the maid, 

A lingering farewell taking, 
Her sighs and tears my steps del ay 'd 

I thought her heart was breaking ; 
In hurried words her name I bless'd, 

I breathed the vows that bind me, 
And to my heart, in anguish, press'd 

The girl I left behind me. 

Then to the East we bore away 

To win a name in story; 
And there, where dawns the sun of day, 

There dawn'd our sun of glory ! 
Both blazed in noon On ALMA'S height, 

Where, in the post assign'd me, 
I shared the glory of that fight, 

Sweet girl I left behind me. 

Full manv a name our banners bore 

Of fprmer deeds of daring, 
But they were of the days of yore, 

In which we had no sharing ; 
But now, our laurels, freshly won, 

With the old ones shall entwined be, 
Still worthy of our sires, each son, 

Sweet girl I left behind me. 



194 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



The hope of final victory 

Within my bosom burning, 
Is mingling with sweet thoughts 
thee 

And of my fond returning: 
But should I ne'er return again, 

Still worth thy love thou'lt find me, 
Dishonor's breath shall never stain 

The name I'll leave behind me ! 



of 



THE FLAG IS HALF-MAST HIGH. 

A BALLAD OP THE WALMKB WATCH. 1 

A GUABD of honor kept its watch in Wal- 

mer's ancient hall, 
And sad and silent was the ward beside the 

Marshal's pall ; 
The measured tread beside the dead through 

echoing space might tell 
How solemnly the round was paced by 

lonely sentinel ; 

But in the guard-room, down below, a war- 
worn veteran gray 
Recounted all THE HBRO'S deeds, through 

many a glorious day : 
How, 'neath the red-cross flag he made the 

foes of Britain fly 
'Though now, for him," the veteran said, 

" that flag is half-mast high 1" 

" I mark one day, when far away the Duke 

on duty went, 
That Sonlt came reconnoitering our front 

with fierce intent ; 
But when uis ear caught up our cheer, the 

.cause he did divine, 
He could not doubt why that bold shout 

was ringing up the line; 
He felt it was the Duke come back, his lads 

to reassure, 
And our position, weak before, he felt was 

then secure,' 



> Arthur, Field-Marshal the Duke of Wellington, died on 
the 14th of September, 1852, at W aimer Castle, where hi* body 
1*7 in etate under a guard of honor. 

* This incident, which occurred in the Pyrenees, ie related 
Ui Napier'e ' History of the Peninsular War." 



He beat retreat, while we did beat advance, 

and made him fly 
Before the conquering flag that now i 

drooping half-mast high 1' 

And truly might the soldier say HIS presence 

ever gave 
Assurance to the most assured, and bravery 

to the brave ; 

His prudence- tempered valor his eagle- 
sighted skill, 
And calm resolves, the measure of a hero 

went to fill. 
Fair Fortune flew before him; 'twas conquest 

where he came 
For Victory wove her chaplet in the magio 

of his name, 
But while his name thus gilds the past, the 

present wakes a sigh, 
To see his flag of glory now but drooping 

half-mast high ! 

In many a bygone battle, beneath an Indian 
sun, 

That flag was borne in triumph o'er the 
sanguine plains he won ; 

Where'er that flag he planted, impregnable 
became, 

As Torres Vedras' heights have told in glit- 
tering steel and flame. 

Twas then to wild Ambition's Chief he flung 
the gauntlet down, 

And from his iron grasp retrieved the ancient 
Spanish crown ; 

He drove him o'er the Pyrenees with 
Victory's swelling cry, 

Before the red-cross flag that now is droop- 
ing half-mast high I 

And when once more from Elba's shore the 

Giant Chief broke loose, 
And startled nations waken'd from the calm 

of hollow truce, 
In foremost post the British host soon 

sprang to arms again, 
And Fate in final balance held the world's 

two foremost men. 
The Chieftains twain might ne'er again have 

need for aught to do, 
So, once for all, we won the fall at glorious 

Waterloo ; 



POEMS OF SAMUEL, LOVJLK. 



195 



The work was done, -md Wellington his 

savior-sword laid by, 
And now, in grief, to mourn our Chief- the 

flag is half-mast high ! 



I CAN NE'ER FORGET THEE. 

IT is the chime ; the hour draws near 

When you and I must sever ; 
Alas ! it must be many a year, 

And it may be forever. 
How long till we shall meet again ; 

How short since first I met thee ; 
How brief the bliss how long the pain 

For I can ne'er forget thee ! 

You said my heart was cold and stern, . 

You doubted love when strongest ; 
In future years you'll live to learn 

Proud hearts can love the longest. 
Oh 1 sometimes think when press'd to hear, 

When flippant tongues beset thee, 
That all must love thee when thou'rt near ; 

But one will ne'er forget thee ! 

The changeful sand doth only know 

The shallow tide and latest ; 
The rocks have mark'd its highest flow 

The deepest and the greatest : 
And deeper still the flood-marks grow ; 

So since the hour I met thee, 
The more the tide of time doth flow 

The less can I forget thee 1 



LOVE AND HOME AND NATIVE 
LAND. 

WHEN o'er the silent deep we rove, 

More fondly then our thoughts will stray 
To those we leave to those we love, 

Whose prayers pursue our watery way. 
When in the lonely midnight hour 

The sailor takes his watchful stand, 
His heart then feels the holiest power 

Of love and home and native land. 



In vain may tropic climes display 

Their glittering shores their gorgeoui 

shells ; 
Though bright birds wing their dazzling way, 

And glorious flowers adorn the dells, 
Though Nature, there prolific, pours 

The treasures of her magic hand, 
The eye, but not the heart, adores : 

The heart still beats for native land. 



MEMORY AND HOPE. 

OFT have I mark'd, as o'er the sea 

We've swept before the wind, 
That those whose hearts were on the shore 

Cast longing looks behind ; 
While they whose hopes have elsewhere been, 

Have watch'd with anxious eyes 
To see the hills that lay before 

Faint o'er the waters rise 

'Tis thus as o'er the sea of life 

Our onward course we track, 
That anxious sadness looks before, 

The happy still look back ; 
Still smiling on the course they've pass'd, 

As earnest of the rest : 
'Tis Hope's the charm of wretchedness, 

While Mem'ry woos the blest. 



MOLLY CAREW. 

OCH HONE ! and what will I do ? 
Sure my love is all crost 
Like a bud in the frost ; 
And there's no use at all in my going to bed 
For 'tis dhrames and not sleep comes into 

my head, 

And 'tis all about you, 
My sweet Molly Carew 
And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame ; 
You're complater than Nature 
In every feature, 
The snow can't compare 
With your forehead so lair, 



196 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



And I rather would see just one blink of 

your eye 
Than the purtiest star that shines out of the 

sky; 

And by this and by that, 
For the matter o' that, 
You're more distant by far than that 

same! 

Och hone ! weirasthru ! 
I'm alone in this world without you. 

Och hone 1 but why should I spake 
Of your forehead and eyes 
When your nose it defies 
Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in 

rhyme ? 
Though there's one Burke, he says, that 

would call it snublime. 
And then -for your cheek ! 
Throth, 'twould take him a week 
Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather. 
Then your lips ! oh, machree ! 
In their beautiful glow, 
They a patthern might be 
For the cherries to grow. 
'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we 

know, 

For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago ; 
But at this time o' day, 
'Po\ my conscience I'll say 
Sucn cherries might tempt a man's 

father ! 

Och hone ! weirasthru t 
I'm alone in this world without you. 

Ocli hone ! by the man in the moon, 
You tase me always 
That a woman can plaze, 
For you dance twice as high with that thief, 

Pat Magee, 
Aa when you take share of a jig, dear, with 

me, 

Though the piper I bate, 
For fear the owld chate 
Wouldn't play you your favorite tune ; 
And when you're at mass 
My devotion you crass, 
For 'tis thinking of you 
I am, Molly Carew, 

While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so 
deep, 



That I can't at your sweet purty face <jet a 

peep : 

Oh, lave off that bonnet, 
Or else I'll lave on it 
The loss of my wandherin' sowl ! 
Och hone i weirasthru / 
Och hone ! like an owl, 
Day is night, dear, to me, without you 1 

Ooh hone ! don't provoke me to do it ; 
For there's girls by the score 
That love me and more, 
And you'd look very quare if some morning 

you'd meet 
My weddin' all marchin' in pride down th 

sthreet ; 

Throth, you'd open your eyes, 
And you'd die with surprise, 
To think 'twasn't you was come to it ! 
And faith Katty Naile, 
And her cow, I go bail, 
Would jump if I'd say, 
" Katty Naile, name the day." 
And though you're fair and fresh as a morn 

ing in May, 
While she's short and dark like a cowld 

winther's day, 
Yet if you don't repent 
Before Easther, when Lent 
Is over I'll marry for spite ! 
Och hone ! weirasthru I 
And when I die for you, 
My ghost will haunt you every night. 



MY DARK-HAIRED GIRL. 

MY dark-hair'd girl, thy ringlets deck, 

In silken curl, thy graceful neck ; 

Thy neck is like the swan, and fair as the 
pearl, 

And light as air the step is of my dark- 
haired girl. 

My dark-haired girl, upon thy lip 
The dainty bee might wish to sip ; 
For thy lip it is the rose, and thy teeth they 

are pearl, 
And diamond is the eye of my dark-haired 

girl ! 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



197 



My dark-haired girl, I've promised thee, 

And thou thy faith hast given to me, 

And oh, I would not change for the crown 

of an earl 
The pride of being loved by my dark-hair'd 

girl! 



NORAH'S LAMENT. 

OH, I think I must follow my Cushlarmar 

three, 
For I can't break the spell of his words 

so enthralling : 
Closer the tendrils around my heart 

creep 
I dream all the day, and at night 1 can't 

sleep, 
For I hear a sad voice that is calling me 

calling 
" Oh Norah, my darling, come over the sea !" 

For my brave and my fond one is over the 

sea, 
He fought for " the cause" and the 

troubles came o'er him ; 
lie fled for his life when the king lost 

the day, 
lie fled for his life and he took mine 

away ; 
For 'tis death here without him : I, dying, 

deplore him, 

Ob ! life of my bosom ! my Cushla-ma- 
chree ! 



THE SILENT FAREWELL. 

IN silence we parted, for neither could speak, 
But the tremulous lip and the fast-fading 

cheek 
To both were betraying what neither could 

tell- 
How deep was the pang of that silent fare- 
well ! 

There are signs ah! the slightest that 

love understands, 
In the meeting of eyes in the parting of 

hands- - 



In the quick-breathing sighs that of deep 

passion tell : 
Oh, such were the signs of our silent faro well ! 

There's a language more glowing love 

teaches the tongue 
Than poet e'er dream'd, or than minstrel 

e'er sung, 
But oh, far beyond all such language could 

tell, 
The love that was told in that silent farewell 1 



'TWAS THE DAY OF THE FEAST. 

[When the annual tribute of the flag of Waterloo to the 
crown of England waa made to William the Fourth, a few 
hoars before his Majesty's lamented death, the King on re- 
ceiving the banner, pressed it to his heart, saying, " It was a 
glorious day for England;" and expressed a wish he might 
survive the day, that the Duke of Wellington's commemoration 
fte of the victory of Waterloo .might take place. A dying 
monarch receiving the banner commemorative of a national 
conquest, and wishing at the same time that his death might 
not disturb the triumphal banquet, is at once so heroic and 
poetic, that it naturally suggests a poem.] 



the day of the feast in the chieftain's 

hall, 

'Twas the day he had seen the foeman fall, 
'Twas the day that his country's valor stood 
'Gainst steel and fire and the tide of blood : 
And the day was mark'd by his country 

well 
For they gave him broad valleys, the hill 

and the dell, 
And they ask'd, as a tribute, the hero should 

bring 
The flag of the foe to the foot of the king. 

'Twas the day of the feast in the chieftain's 

hall, 
And the banner was brought at the chief- 

tain's call, 

And he went in his glory the tribute to bring, 
To lay at the foot of the brave old king : 
But the hall of the king was in silence and 

grief, 

And smiles, as of old, did not greet the chief; 
For he came on the angel of victory's wing, 
While the angel of death was awaiting the 

king. 



198 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



The chieftain he knelt by the couch of the 

king; 
"I know," said the monarch, "the tribute 

you bring, 

Give me the banner, ere life depart ;" 
And IIP press'd the flag to his fainting heart. 
" It is joy, e'en in death," cried the monarch, 

" to say 
That my country hath known such a glorious 

day! 
Heaven grant I may live till the midnight's 

fall, 
That my chieftain may feast in his warrior 

hall !" 



WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE? 

" WHAT will you do, love, when I am going, 
With white sail flowing, 

The seas beyond ? 

What will you do, love, when waves divide us, 
And friends may chide us 

For being fond ?" 
"Though waves divide us, and friends be 

chiding, 
In faith abiding, 

I'll still be true ! 

And I'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean, 
In deep devotion 

That's what I'll do !" 

" What would you do, love, if distant tidings 
Thy fond confidings 

Should undermine ? 
And I, abiding 'neath sultry skies, 
Should think other eyes 

Were as bright as thine?" 
" Oh, name it not ! though guilt and shame 
Were on thy name, 

I'd still be true : 
But that heart of thine should another 

share it 
I could not bear it ! 

What would I do ?" 

" What would you do, love, when home re- 
turning, 
With hopes high-burning, 



With wealth for you, 

If my bark, which bounded o'er foreign foam, 
Should be lost near home 

Ah ! what would you do ?" 
" So thou wert spared I'd bless the morrow 
In want and sorrow, 

That left me you ; 
And I'd welcome thee from the wasting bil 

low, 
This heart thy pillow 

That's what I'd do!" 



WHO ARE YOU? 

["There are very impudent people in London," uid 
country cousin of mine hi 1837. "As I walked down the 
Strand, a fellow stared at me and shouted, ' Wlio are yon ?' 
Five minutes after another passing me, cried, ' Flare np' 
but a civil gentleman, close to his heels, politely asked, ' How 
is your mother f ' 

This mere trifle is almost unintelligible now, but when flrtt 
published was so effective and popular, as illustrating genteelly 
the slang cries of the street, that It was honored by French 
and Italian versions from the sparkling pen of the renowned 
"Father Front." in Benlley'i Miscellany.] 

" WHO are you ? who are you ? 

Little boy that's running after 
Everybody, up and down, 

Mingling sighing with your laughter?" 
" I &m Cupid, lady Belle ; 

I am Cupid, and no other." 
" Little boy, then prythee tell 

How is Venus ? Hovfs your mother f 
Little boy, little boy, 

I desire you tell me true, 
Cupid oh, you're altered so, 

No wonder I cry, Who are you f 

" Who are you ? who are you ? 
Little boy, where is your bow ? 

You had a bow, my little boy 

" So had you, ma'am long ago." 

" Little boy, where is your torch ?" 
" Madam, I have given it up : 

Torches are no use at all- 
Hearts will never now flare up." 

" Naughty boy, naughty boy, 

Such words as these I never knew ; 

Cupid oh, you're altered so, 

No wonder I say, Who are youf" 






THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



THE BRIDAL OF MALAHIDE. 

AN IRISH LEGEND 

THE joy-belle are ringing 

In gay Malahide, 
The fresh wind is singing 

Along the sea-side; 
The maids aie assembling 

With garlands of flowers, 
And the harpstrings are trembling 

In all the glad bowers. 

Swell, swell the gay measure ! 

Roll trumpet and drum ! 
'Mid greetings of pleasure 

In splendor they come ! 
The chancel is ready, 

The portal stands wide 
For the lord and the lady, 

The bridegroom and bride. 

WTiat years, ere the latter, 

Of earthly delight 
The future shall scatter 

O'er them in its flight 1 
What blissful caresses 

Shall Fortune bestow, 
ffire those dark-flowing tresses 

Fall white as the snow 1 

Before the high altar 

Young Maud stands array'd; 
With accents that falter 

Her promise is made 
From father and mother 

Forever to part, 
For him and no other 

To treasure her heart. 



The words are repeated, 

The bridal is done, 
The rite is ^completed 

The two, they are one ; 
The vow, it is spoken 

All pure from the heart, 
That must not be broken 

Till life shall depart 

Hark ! 'mid the gay clangor 

That compass'd their car, 
Loud accents, in anger 

Come mingling afar ! 
The foe's on the bordei, 

His weapons resound 
Where the lines in disorder 

Unguarded are found. 

As wakes the good shepherd, 

The watchful and bold, 
When the ounce or the leopard 

Is seen in the fold ; 
So rises already 

The chief in his mail, 
While the new-married lady 

Looks fainting and pale. 

" Son, husband, and brother, 

Arise to the strife, 
For sister and mother, 

For children and wife ! 
O'er hill and o'er hollow, 

O'er mountain and plain, 
Up, true men, and follow ! 

Let dastards remain !" 

Farrah ! to the battle ! 

They form into line 
The shields, how they rattle ! 

The spears, how they shine I 



200 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Soon, soon shall the foeman 

His treachery rue 
On, burgher and yeoman, 

To die, or to do ! 

The eve is declining 

In lone Malahide, 
The maidens are twining 

Gay wreaths for the bride ; 
She marks them unheeding 

Her heart is afar, 
Where the clansmen are bleeding 

For her in the war. 

Hark ! loud from the mountain, 

"Tis Victory's cry ! 
O'er woodland and fountain 

It rings to the sky ! 
The foe has retreated ! 

He flies to the shore ; 
The spoiler's defeated 

The combat is o'er ! 

With foreheads unruffled 

The conquerors come 
But why have they muffled 

The lance and the drum ? 
What form do they carry 

Aloft on his shield ? 
And where does he tarry, 

The lord of the field? 

Ye saw him at morning, 

How gallant and gay ! 
In bridal adorning, 

The star of the day : 
Now weep for the lover 

His triumph is sped, 
His hope, it is over ! 

The chieftain is dead ! 

But, oh for the maiden 

Who mourns for that chief, 
With heart overladen 

Aj?d rending with grief 1 
She sinks on the meadow 

In one morning-tide, 
A wife and a widow, 

A maid and a bride 1 

Ye maidens attending, 
Forbear to condole I 



Your comfort is rending 
The depths of her soul 

True true, 'twas a story 
For ages of pride ; 

He died in his glory 
But, oh, he has died ! 

The war-cloak she raises 

All mournfully now, 
And steadfastly gazes 

Upon the cold brow. 
That glance may forever 

Unalter'd remain, 
But the bridegroom will never 

Return it again. 

The dead-bells are tolling 

In sad Malahide, 
The death-wail is rolling 

Along the sea-side ; 
The crowds, heavy hearted, 

Withdraw from the green, 
For the sun had departed 

That brighten'd the scene 1 

Even yet in that valley, 

Though years have roll'd by, 
When through the wild sally 

The sea-breezes sigh, 
The peasant, with sorrow, 

Beholds in the shade, 
The tomb where the morrow 

Saw Hussy convey'd. 

How scant was the warning, 

How briefly reveal'd, 
Before on that morning 

Death's chalice was fill'd ! 
The herb who drunk it 

There moulders in gloom, 
And the form of Maud Plunket 

Weeps over his tomb. 

The stranger who wanders 

Along the lone vale, 
Still sighs while he pon<in* 

On that heavy tale : 
" Thus passes each pleasure 

That earth can supply 
Thus joy has its measure 

We live but to die I" 






THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



201 



HARK 1 HARK I THE SOFT BUGLE. 

HARK ! hark ! the soft bugle sounds over the 

wood, 

And thrills in the silence of even, 
Till faint, and more faint, in the far solitude, 

It dies on the portals of heaven ! 
But echo springs up, from her home in the 

rock, 

And seizes the perishing strain ; 
And sends the gay challenge, with shadowy 

mock, 
From mountain to mouatain again ! 

And again ! 
From mountain to mountain again. 

Oh, thus let my love, like a sound of delight, 
Be around thee while shines the glad 

day, 
And leave thee, unpain'd, in the silence of 

night, 

And die like sweet music away. 
While hope, with her warm light, thy glan- 
cing eye fills, 

Oh, say " Like that echoing strain, 
Though the sound of his love has died over 

the hills, 
It will waken in heaven again." 

And again ! 
It will waken in heaven again. 



A SOLDIER A SOLDIER TO-NIGHT 
IS OUR GUEST. 

FAN, fan the gay hearth, and fling back the 

barr'd door,. 
Strew, strew the fresh rushes around on our 

floor, 

&.nd blithe be the welcome in every breast 
For a soldier a soldier to-night is our 

guest. 

All honor to him who, when danger afar 

Had lighted for ruin his ominous star, 

Left pleasure, and country, and kindred 

behind, 
And sped to the shock on the wings of the 

wind. 



If you value the blessings that shine at OUT 

hearth 
The wife's smiling welcome, the infant's sweet 

mirth 
While they charm us at eve, let us think 

upon those 
Who have bought with their blood oui 

domestic repose. 

Then share with the soldier your hearth and 

your home, 
And warm be your greeting whene'er he 

shall come ; 

Let love light a welcome in every breast 
For a soldier a soldier to-night is our gueflt 



AILEEN AROON. 

WHEN like the early rose, 

Aileen aroon ! 
Beauty in childhood blows, 

Aileen aroon ! 
When like a diadem, 
Buds blush around the stem, 
Which is the fairest gem ? 

Aileen aioon ! 

Is it the laughing eye ? 

Aileen aroon ! 
Is it the timid sigh ? 

Aileen aroon ! 
Is it the tender tone, 
Soft as the string'd harp's moan t 
Oh, it is truth alone, 

Aileen aroon ! 

When, like the rising day, 

Aileen aroon I 
Love sends his early ray, 

Aileen aroon ! 

What makes his dawning glow 
Changeless through joy or woe T 
Only the constant know, 

Aileen aroon ! 

I know a valley fair, 

Aileen aroon I 
I knew a cottage there, 

Aileen aroon I 



902 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Far in that valley's shade 
I knew a gentle maid, 
Flower of the hazel glade, 
Aileen aroon ! 

Who in the song so sweet, 

Aileen aroon ! 
Who in the dance so sweet, 

Aileen aroon ! 

Dear were her charms to me, 
Dearer her laughter free, 
Dearest her constancy, 
Aileen aroon ! 

Were she no longer true, 
Aileen aroon ! 

What should her lover <1 '.' 
Aileen aroon 1 

Fly with his broken chain 

Far o'er the sounding main, 

Never to love again, 

Aileen aroon ! 

Youth must with time decay, 
Aileen aroon ! 

Beauty must fade away, 
Aileen aroon ! 

Gristles are sack'd in war, 

Chieftains are scatter'd far, 

Truth is a fixed star, 
Aileen aroon ! 



KNOW YE 



NOT THAT 
RIVER. 1 



LOVELY 



Are" Boy' i w\fe qf AldivaUocli." 

KNOW ye not that lovely river? 
Know ye not that smiling river ? 
Whose gentle flood, 
By cliff and wood, 
With wildering sound goes winding ever. 

Oh ! often yet with feeling strong, 
On that dear stream my memory ponders, 

And still I prize its murmuring song, 
For by my childhood's home it wanders. 
Know ye not, &c. 



There's music in each wind that flows 

Within our native woodland breathing ; 
There's beauty in each flower that blows 

Around our native woodland wreathing. 
The memory of the brightest joys 

In childhood's happy morn that found a*, 
Is dearer than the richest toys 

The present vainly sheds around us. 
Know ye not, &c. 

Oh, sister! when 'mid doubts and fears, 

That haunt life's onward journey ever, 
I turn to those departed years, 

And that beloved and lonely river ; 
With sinking mind and bosom riven, 

And heart with lonely anguish aching ; 
It needs my long-taught hope in heaven 

To keep this weary heart from breaking ! 
Know ye not, <fcc. 



I 



1 Tbeee verses were written at the request of hie Bister, who 
wrote to him from America for new words for the old Scotch 
tlr of Roy'a wife of Aldivalloch 



'TIS, IT IS THE SHANNON'S STREAM 

Tis, it is the Shannon's stream 

Brightly glancing, brightly glancing 
See, oh, see the raddy beam 

Upon its waters dancing ! 
Thus return'd from travel vain, 
Years of exile, years of pain, 
To see old Shannon's face again, 

Oh, the bliss entrancing ! 
Hail our own majestic stream, 

Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own belovdd river ! 

Fling thy rocky portals wide, 

Western ocean, western ocean ; 
Bend ye hills, on either side, 

In solemn, deep devotion ; 
While before the rising gales 
On his heaving surface sails 
Half the wealth of Erin's vales, 

With undulating motion. 
Hail, our own beloved stream, 

Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own majestic river ! 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



208 



On thy bosom deep and wide, 

Xoble river, lordly river, 
Royal navies safe might ride, 

Green Erin's lovely river. 
Proud upon thy banks to dwell, 
Let me ring Ambition's knell, 
Lured by hope's illusive spell 

Again to wander, never. 
Hail, our own romantic stream, 

Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Onr own majestic river ! 

Let me from thy placid course, 

Gentle river, mighty river, 
Draw such truth of silent force 

As sophist uttered never. 
Thus, like thee, unchanging still, 
With tranquil breast and order'd will, 
My heaven-appointed course fulfil, 

Undeviating ever! 
Hail, our own majestic stream, 

Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own delightful river ! 



LOVE MY LOVE IN THE MORNING. 

I IOVB my love in the morning, 

For she like morn is fair 
Her blushing cheek, its crimson streak, 

Its clouds her golden hair. 
Her glance, its beam, so soft and kind ; 

Her tears, its dewy showers ; . 
And her voice, the tender whispering wind 

That stirs the early bowers. 

* love my love in the morning, 

I love my love at noon, 
For she is bright as the lord of light, 

Vet mild as autumn's moon : 
Her beauty is my bosom's sun, 

Her faith my fostering shade, 
And I will love my darling one, 

Till even the sun shall fade. 

I love my love in the morning, 
I love my love at even ; 



Her smile's soft play is like the ray 
That lights the western heaven : 

I loved her when the sun was high, 
I loved her when he rose ; 

But best of all when evening's sigh 
Was murmuring at its close. 



ORANGE AND GREEN. 

' Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease- 
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase. 
Till, like the rainbow's light, 
Thy various tints unite, 
And form in heaven's sight 
One arch of peace 1" 

THOMAS Moon. 

THE night was falling dreary 

In merry Bandon town, 
When in his cottage, weary, 

An Orangeman lay down. 
The summer sun in splendor 

Had set upon the vale, 
And shouts of " No surrender !'' 

Arose upon the gale. 

Beside the waters, laving 

The feet of aged trees, 
The Orange banners waving, 

Flew boldly in the breeze 
In mighty chorus meeting, 

A hundred voices join, 
And fife and drum were beating 

The Battle of the Boyne. 

Ha ! toward his cottage meing, 

What form is speedy now, 
From yonder thicket flying, 

With blood upon his brow ! 
"Hide hide me, worthy stranger! 

Though green my color be, 
And in the day of danger 

May Heaven remember thee I 

" In yonder vale contending, 
Alone against that crew, 

My life and limbs defending, 
An Orangeman I slew. 

Hark ! hear that fearful warning 
There's death in every tone 



204 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Oh, save my life to morning, 
And Heaven prolong your own !" 

The Orange heart was melted, 

In pity to the Green ; 
He heard the tale, and felt it, 

His very soul within. 
"Dread not that angry warning, 

Though death be in its tone 
111 s.ive your life till morning, 

Or I will lose my own." 

Now, round his lowly dwelling 

The angry torrent press'd, 
A hundred voices swelling, 

The Orangeman address'd 
"Arise, arise, and follow 

The chase along the plain ! 
In yonder stony hollow 

Your only son is slain !" 

With rising shouts they gather 

Upon the track amain, 
And leave the childless father 

Aghast with sudden pain. 
He seeks the righted stranger 

In covert where he lay 
"Arise !" he said, "all danger 

Is gone and past away ! 

" I had a son one only, 

One loved as my life, 
Thy hand has left me lonely 

In that accurs6d strife. 
I pledged my word to save thee, 

Until the storm should cease ; 
I keep the pledge I gave thee 

Arise, and go in peace !" 

The stranger soon departed 

From that unhappy vale ; 
The father, broken-hearted, 

Lay brooding o'er that tale. 
Full twenty summers after 

To silver turn'd his beard ; 
And yet the sound of laughtei 

From him was never heard. 

The night was falling dreary, 
In merry Wexford town, 



When in his cabin, weary, 
A peasant laid him down. 

And many a voice was singing 
Along the summer vale, 

And Wexford town was ringing 
With shouts of " Granua Uile." 

Beside the waters laving 

The feet of ag6d trees, 
The green flag, gayly waving, 

Was spread against the breeze ; 
In mighty chorus meeting, 

Loud voices fill'd the town, 
And fife and drum were beating, 

" Down, Orangemen, lie doton /* 

Hark! 'mid the stirring clangor,- 

That woke the echoes there, 
Loud voices, high in anger, 

Rise on the evening air. 
Like billows of the ocean, 

He sees them hurry on 
And, 'mid the wild commotion, 

An Orangeman alone. 

" My hair," he said, " is hoary, 

And feeble is my hand, 
And I could tell a story 

Would shame your cruel band. 
Full twenty years and over 

Have changed my heart and brow, 
And I am grown a lover 

Of peace and concord now. 

" It was not thus I greeted 

Tour brother of the Green, 
When, fainting and defeated, 

I freely took him iu. 
I pledged my word to save him. 

From vengeance \-uohing on ; 
I kept the pledge I gave him, 

Though he had kill'd my BOB." 

That aged peasant beard him, 

And knew him as he stood ; 
Remembrance kindly stirr'd him, 

And tender gratitude. 
With gushing tears of pleasure 

He pierced the listening train - 
I'm here to pay the measure 

Of kindness back again !" 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



20, 



Upon his bosom falling, 

That old man's tears came down, 
Deep memory recalling 

That cot and fatal town. 
" The hand that would offend thee 

My being first shall end 
I'm living to defend thee, 

My savior and my friend I" 

He said, and, slowly turning, 

Address'd the wondering crowd ; 
With fervent spirit burning, 

He told the tale aloud. 
Now press'd the warm beholders, 

Their ag6d foe to greet ; 
They raised him on their shoulders, 

And chair'd him through the street. 

As he had saved that stranger 

From peril scowling dim, 
So in his day of danger 

Did Heaven remember him. 
By joyous crowds attended, 

The worthy pair were seen, 
And their flags that day were blended 

Of Orange and of Green. 



SLEEP THAT LIKE THE COUCHED 
DOVE. 

SLEEP, that like the couched dove, 

Broods o'er the weary eye, 
Dreams that with soft heavings move 

The heart of memory 
Labor's guerdon, golden rest, 
Wrap thee in its downy vest ; 
Fall like comfort on thy brain, 
And sing the hush-song to thy pain ! 

Far from thee be startling fears, 
And dreams the guilty dream ; 
No banshee scare thy drowsy ears 

With her ill-omen'd scream. 
But tones of fairy minstrelsy 
Float like the ghosts of sound o'er thee, 
Soft as the chapel's distant bell, 
And lull thee to a sweet farewell. 



Ye, for whom the ashy hearth 

The fearful housewife clears 
Te, whose tiny sounds of mirth 
The nighted carman hears 
Ye, whose pigmy hammers make 
The wonderers of the cottage wake 
Noiseless be your airy flight, 
Silent as the still moonlight. 

Silent go and harmless come, 

Fairies of the stream 
Ye, who love the winter gloom, 

Or the gay moonbeam 
Hither bring your drowsy store, 
Gather'd from the bright lusmore, 
Shake o'er temples soft and deep 
The comfort of the poor man's sleep. 



GILLI MA CHREE. 

Gitti ma chree, 

Sit down by me, 
We now are join'd, and ne'er shall sever 

This hearth's our own, 

Our hearts are one, 
And peace is ours forever ! 

When I was poor, 

Your father's door 
Was closed against your constant lover ; 

With care and pain 

I tried in vain 
My fortunes to recover. 
I said, " To other lands I'll roam, 

Where Fate may smile on me, love ;" 
I said, " Farewell, my own old home !" 
And I said, " Farewell to thee, love !" 

I might have said, 
My mountain maid, 

"Come, live with me, your own true lover; 
I know a spot, 
A silent cot, 

Your friends can ne'er discover. 
Where gently flows the waveless tide, 

By one small garden only ; 
Where the heron waves his wings BO wide. 
And the innet sings so lonely 1" 



206 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



I might have said, 
My mountain maid, 
" A father's right was never given 
True hearts to curse 
With tyrant force 
That have been blest in heaven." 
But then, I said, "In after-years, 

When thoughts of home shall find her, 
My love may mourn with secret tears 
Her friends thus left behind her." 

Oh ! no, I said, 
My own dear maid, 
For me, though all forlorn, forever 
That heart of thine 
Shall ne'er repine 
O'er slighted duty never. 
From home and thee, though wandering far, 

A dreary fate be mine, love ; 
I'd rather live in endless war, 
Than buy my peace with thine, love. 

Far, far away, 

By night and day, 
I toil'd to win a golden treasure ; 

And golden gains 

Repaid my pains 
In fair and shining measure. 
I sought again my native land, 

Thy father welcom'd me, love ; 
I pour'd my gold into his hand, 
And my guerdon found in thee, love ? 

Sing Gilli ma chree, 

Sit down by me, 
We now are join'd, and ne'er shall sever; 

This hearth's our own, 

Our hearts are one, 
And peace is ours forever. 



OLD TIMES I OLD TIMES ! 

OLD times ! old times ! the gay old times ! 

When I was young and free, 
And heard the merry Easter chimes 

Under the sally tree. 
My Sunday palm beside me placed 

My cross upon my hand 
A heart at rest within my breast, 

And sunshine on the laud ! 

Old times ! Old times ! 



It is not that my fortunes flee, 

Nor that my cheek is pale 
I mourn whene'er I think of thee, 

My darling, native vale ! 
A wiser head I have, I know, 

Than when I loiter'd there ; 
But in my wisdom there is woe, 

And in my knowledge care. 

Old times ! Old times 1 

I've lived to know my share of joy. 

To feel my share of pain 
To learn that friendship's self can cloy, 

To love, and love in vain 
To feel a pang and wear a smile, 

To tire of other climes 
To like my own unhappy isle, 

And sing the gay old times ! 

Old times ! Old times ! 

And sure the land is nothing changed, 

The birds are singing still ; 
The flowers are springing where we ranged, 

There's sunshine on the hill ! 
The sally, waving o'er my head, 

Still sweetly shades my frame 
But, ah, those happy days are fled, 

And I am not the same ! 

Old times ! Old times .' 

Oh, come again, ye merry times ! 

Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm 
And let me hear those Easter chimes, 

And wear my Sunday palm. 
If I could cry away mine eyes, 

My tears would flow in vain 
If I could waste my heart in sighs, 

They'll never come again ! 

Old times ! Old times I 



A PLACE IN THY MEMORY, 
DEAREST. 

A PLACB in thy memory, dearest, 

Is all that I claim, 
To pause and look back when thou hearert 

The sound of my name. 
Another may woo thee, nearer, 

Another may win and wear ; 









THE POEMS OP GERALD GRIFFIN. 



I care not though he be dearer, 
If I am remember'd there. 

Remember me not as a lover 

Whose hope was cross'd, 
Whose bosom can never recover 

The light it hath lost; 
As the young bride remembers the mother 

She loves, though she never may see ; 
As a sister remembers a brother, 

O dearest ! remember me. 

(Jould I be thy true lover, dearest, 

Couldst thou smile on me, 
I would be the fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee ! 
But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, 

That never must burst upon thine ; 
\nd Heaven, that made thee all-blooming, 

Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 

Remember me, then ! Oh, remember, 

My calm, light love ; 
Though bleak as the blasts of November 

My life may prove. 
That life will, though lonely, be sweet, 

If its brightest enjoyment should be 
A smile and kind word when we meet, 

And a place in thy memory. 



FOR I AM DESOLATE. 

i THE Christmas light 1 is burning bright 

In many a village pane, 
And many a cottage rings to-night 

With many a merry strain. 
Young boys and girls run laughing by, 

Their hearts and eyes elate 
I can but think on mine, and sigh, 

For I am desolate. 

There's none to watch in our old cot, 

Beside the holy light, 
No tongue to bless the silent spot 

Against the parting night. 1 



> The Christmas a light blessed by the priest, and lighted 
st sunset, on Christmas eve, In Irish houses. It If a kind of 
.mplety to snuff, touch, or u?c it for any profane pnrpo?eb 
alter. 

1 It ! the custom. In Irish Catholic families, to tit up till 



I've closed the door, and hither come 
To mourn my lonely fate ; 

I cannot bear my own old home, 
It is so desolate. 

I saw my father's eyes grow dim, 

And clasp'd my mother's knee; 
I saw my mother follow him 

My husband wept with me. 
My husband did not long remain 

His child was left me yet, 
But now my heart's last love is slain, 

And I am desolate ! 



THE BRIDAL WAKE. 

THE priest stood at the marriage board 

The marriage cake was made, 
With meat the marriage chest was stc red, 

Deck'd was the marriage bed. 
The old man sat beside the fire, 

The mother sat by him, 
The white bride was in gay attire ; 

But her dark eye was dim. 

Ululah ! Ululah ! 
The night falls quick the sun is set ; 
Her love is on the water yet. 

I saw a red cloud in the west, 

Against the morning light 
Heaven shield the youth that she loves best 

From evil chance to-night. 
The door flings wide ! Loud moans the gale ; 

Wild fear her bosom fills 
It is, it is the banshee's wail ! 

Over the darken'd hills. 

Ululah ! Ulnlah ! 

The day is past ! the night is dark ! 
The waves are mounting round his bark. 

The guests sit round the bridal bed, 

And break the bridal cake ; 
But they sit by the dead man's head, 

And hold his wedding wake. 



midnight on Christmas eve, in order to join In devotion at 
that hour. Pew ceremonies of religion have a more splen- 
did and Imposing effect than the morning mats, which, IB 
cities, is celebrated soon after the Hour alluded to, and long 
before daybreak. 



208 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



The bride is praying in her room, 

The place is silent all ! 
A fearful call ! a sudden doom ! 

Bridal and funeral. 

TJlulah! Ululah! 
A youth to Kilfieheras" ta'en 
That never will return again. 



ADARE. 

O SWEET Adare, lovely vale, 

O soft retreat of sylvan splendor ! 
Nor summer sun nor morning gale 

E'er hail'd a scene more softly tender. 
How shall I tell the thousand charms, 

Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, 
When lull'd in Nature's fostering arms, 

Soft peace abides and joy excelling ! 

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 

The slumbering boughs your song awaken, 
Or linger o'er the silent lawn, 

With odor of the harebell taken 1 
Thou rising sun, how richly gleams 

Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, 
O'er waving woods and bounding streams, 

And many a grove and glancing fountain ! 

Te clouds of noon, how freshly there, 

When summer heats the open meadows, 
O'er parched lull and valley fair, 

All coolly lie your veiling shadows ! 
Te rolling shades and vapors gray, 

Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven, 
How soft ye seal the eye of day, 

And wreathe the dusky brow of even 1 

In sweet Adare the jocund Spring 

His notes of odorous joy is breathing, 
The wild-birds in the woodland sing, 

The wild-flowers in the vale are breathing. 
There winds the Mague, as silver clear, 

Among the elms so sweetly flowing ; 
There fragrant in the early year 

Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 

The wild-duck seeks the sedgy bank 
Or dives beneath the glistening billow 



Where graceful droop and clustering dan! 

The osier bright and rustling willow ; 
The hawthorn scents the leafy dale, 

In thicket lone the stag is belling, 
And sweet along the echoing vale 

The sound of vernal joy is swelling. 



1 The name of a churchyard near Kilkee. 



THE POETS PROPHECY. 

IN the time of my boyhood I had a strange 
feeling, 

That I was to die in the noon of my day ; 
Not quietly into the silent grave stealirg, 

But torn, like a blasted oak, sudden away. 

That, e'en in the hour when enjoyment was 

keenest, 
My lamp should quench suddenly hissing 

in gloom, 
That e'en when mine honors were freshest 

and greenest, 

A blight should rush over and scatter 
their bloom. 

It might be a fancy it might be the gloom - 

ing 
Of dark visions taking the semblance of 

truth, 
1 And it might be the shade of the storm that 

is coming, 

Cast thus in its morn through the sunshine 
of youth. , 

But be it a dream or a mystic revealing, 
The bodement has haunted me year after 

year, 
And whenever my bosom with rapture wa 

filling, 
I paused for the footfall of fate at mine ear. 

With this feeling upon me all feverish and 

glowing, 
I rnsh'd up the rugged way panting to 

Fame. 
I snatch'd at my laurels while yet they were 

growing, 

And won for my guerdon the half of a 
name. 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



209 






My triumphs I view'd from the least to the 

brightest, 
As gay flowers pluck'd from the fingers of 

Death, 
And whenever Joy's garments flow'd richest 

and lightest, 
I look'd for the skeleton lurking beneath. 

Oh, friend of my 'heart ! if that doom should 

fall on me, 
And thou shouldst live on to remember 

my love 
Come oft to the tomb when the turf lies upon 

me, 
And list to the even wind mourning above. 

Lie down by that bank where the river is 

creeping 

All fearfully under the still autumn tree, 
When each leaf in the sunset is silently 

weeping, 

And sigh for departed days thinking of 
me. 

But when, o'er the minstrel, thou'rt lonelily 

sighing, 
Forgive, if his failings should flash on thy 

brain, 
Remember the heart that beneath thee is 

lying 
Can never awake to offend thee again. 

Remember how freely that heart that to 

others 
Was dark as the tempest-dawn frowning 

above, 

Burst open to thine with the zeal of a broth- 
er's, 

And show'd all its hues in the light of thy 
love. 



TWILIGHT SONG. 

DEWY twilight ! silent hour! 
Welcome to our cottage bower ! 
See, along the lonely meadow, 
Gliost-like, falls the lengthen'd shadow, 
While the sun, with level shine, 
Turns the stream to rosy wine ; 



And from yonder busy town 
Homeward hies the lazy clown. 

Hark ! along the dewy ground 

Steals the sheep-bell's drowsy sound; 
While the ploughman, late returning, 
Sees his cheerful fagot burning, 
And his dame, with kindly smile, 
Meets him by the rustic stile ; 
While beneath the hawthorn mute 
Swells the peasant's merry flute. 

Lass, from market homeward speed ; 
Traveller, urge thy lagging steed 
Fly the dark wood's lurking danger ; 
Churl, receive the 'nighted stranger 
He with merry song and jest 
Will repay thy niggard feast, 
And the eye of Heaven above 
Smile upon the deed of love. 

Hour of beauty ! hour of peace ! 
Hour when care and labor cease ; 
When around her hush'd dominion 
Nature spreads her brooding pinion, 
While a thousand angel eyes 
Wake to watch us from the skies, 
Till the reason centres there, 
And the heart is moved to prayer. 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 

MY darling, my darling, while silence is on 

the moor, 
And lone in the sunshine, I sit by our cabin 

door ; 
When evening falls quiet, and calm overland 

and sea, 
My darling, my darling, I think of past times 

and thee ! 

Here, while on this cold shore, I wear out my 
lonely hours, 

My child in the heavens is spreading my bed 
with flowers; 

All weary my bosom is grown of this friend- 
less clime 

But I long not to leave it ; for that were a 
shame and crime. 



210 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



They bear to the churchyard the youth in 

their health away 
I know where a fruit hangs more ripe for the 

grave than they 
But I wish not for death, for my spirit is all 

resign'd, 
And the hope that stays with me gives peace 

to my ag6d mind. 

My darling, my darling, God gave to my 
feeble age 

A prop for my faint heart, a stay in my pil- 
grimage ; 

My darling, my darling, God takes back his 
gift again 

And my heart may be broken, but ne'er shall 
my will complain. 



YOU NEVER BADE ME HOPE, TIS 
TRUE. 

You never bade me hope, 'tis true 

I ask'd you not to swear ; . 
But I look'd in those eyes of blue, 

And read a promise there. 

The vow should bind with maiden sighs 
That maiden's lips have spoken 

But that which looks from maiden's eyes 
Should last of all be broken ! 



LIKE THE OAK BY THE FOUNTAIN. 

LIKE the oak by the fountain, 

In sunshine and storm ; 
Like the rock on the mountain, 

Unchanging in form ; 
Like the course of the river, 

Through ages the same ; 
Like the mist, mounting ever 

To heaven, whence it came. 

So firm be thy merit, 

So changeless thy soul ; 
So constant thy spirit, 

While seasons shall roll ; 



The fancy that ranges, 

Ends where it began ; 
But the mind that ne'er changes 

Brings glory to man. 



THE PHANTOM CITY. 

A STOET I heard on the cliffs of the west, 

That oft, through the breakers dividing, 
A city is seen on the ocean's wild breast 

In turreted majesty riding. 
But brief is the glimpse of that phantom so 
bright, 

Soon close the white waters to screen it, 
And the bodement, they say, of the wonder, 
ful sight, 

Is death to the eyes that have seen it. 

I said, when they told me the wonderful talf 

My country, is this not thy story ? 
Thus oft, through the breakers of discord 
we hail 

A promise of peace and of glory. 
Soon gulphed in those waters of hatred again 

No longer our fancy can find it, 
And woe to our hearts for the vision so vain ; 

For ruin and death come behind it. 



WAR! WAR! HORRID WAR! 

WAE ! War ! Horrid war ! 

Fly our lovely plain, 
Guide fleet and far 

Thy fiery car, 
And never come again, 

And never, 
Never come again I 

Peace ! Peace ! smiling Peace I 
Bless our lonely plain, 

Guide swiftly here 
Thy mild career, 

And never go again 1 
And never, 

Never go again ! . 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



211 



GONE! GONE! FOREVER GONE. 

GONE, gone, forever gone 
Are the hopes I cherish'd, 

Changed like the sunny dawn, 
In sudden showers perish'd. 

Wither'd is the early flower, 
Like a bright lake broken, 

Faded like a happy hour, 
Or Love's secret spoken. 

Life ! what a cheat art thou ! 

On youthful fancy stealing, 
A prodigal in promise now ; 

A miser in fulfilling ! 



SONNETS. 

ADDRESSED TO FRIENDS IN AMERICA, AND PRE- 
FIXED TO " CARD-DRAWING," ONE OF THE 
TALES OF THE MUNSTER FESTIVALS. 

FRIENDS far away and late in life exiled 
Whene'er these scatter'd pages meet your 

gaze, 
Think of the scenes where early fortune 

smiled ^ 

The land that was your home in happier 

days 

The sloping lawn, to which the tired rays 
Of evening stole o'er Shannon's sheeted 

flood 

The hills of Clare, that in its softening haze 
Look'd vapor-like and dim the lonely 

wood 

The cliff-bound Inch the chapel in the glen, 
Where oft, with bare and reverent locks, 

we stood, 
To hear the Eternal truths the small dark 

maze 
Of the wild stream that clipp'd the bloseom'd 

plain, 

And toiling through the varied solitude, 
Upraised its hundred silver tongues and 
babbled praise. 

That home is desolate ! our quiet hearth 
Is ruinous and cold and many a sight 



And many a sound are met of vulgar mirth, 
Where once your gentle laughter cheer'd 

the night. 

It is as with your country. The calm light 
Of social peace for her is quenched too 
Rude Discord blots her scenes of old de- 
light, 
Her gentle virtues scared away like 

you. 

Remember her when in this tale you meet 
The story of a struggling right of ties 
Fast bound and swiftly rent of joy of 

pain 
Legends which by the cottage fire sound 

sweet ; 

Nor let the hand that wakes those memo- 
ries 

(In faint but fond essay) be unremember'd 
then. 



WAR SONG OF O'DRISCOL. 

FROM the shieling that stands by the lone 
mountain river, 

Hurry, hurry down with the axe and the 
quiver ; 

From the deep-seated Coom, from the storm- 
beaten highland, 

Hurry, hurry down to the shores of your 
island. 

Hurry down, hurry down 1 
Hurry, hurry, &c. 

Galloglach and Kern, hurry down to the 

sea 
There the hungry Raven's beak is gaping 

for a prey ; 
Farrah 1 to the onset ! Farrah ! to the 

shore ! 
Feast him with the pirate's flesh, the bird of 

gloom and gore ! 

Hurry down, hurry down J 
Hurry down, &o. 

Hurry, for the slaves of Bel are mustering 

to meet ye ; 
Hurry by the beaten cliff, the Nordman 

longs to greet ye ; 



212 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Hurry now. the mountain! hurry, hurry 

from the plain ! 

Welcome him, and never let him leave our 
land again ! 

Hurry down, hurry down I 
Hurry down, &c. 

On the land a sulky wolf, and in the sea a 

shark, 
Hew the ruffian spoiler down, and burn his 

gory bark ! 

Slayer of the unresisting ! ravager profane ! 
Leave the White sea-tyrant's limbs to 
moulder on the plain. 

Hurry down, hurry down 1 
Hurry down, &c. 



MY SPIRIT IS OF PENSIVE MOULD. 

MY spirit is of pensive mould, 

I cannot laugh as once of old, 

When sporting o'er some woodland scene, 

A child I trod the dewy green. 

I cannot sing my merry lay, 
As in that past unconscious day ; 
For time has laid existence bare, 
And shown me sorrow lurking there. 

I would I were the lonely breeze 
That mourns among the leafless trees, 
That I might sigh from morn till night 
O'er vanish'd peace and lost delight. 

I would I were the heavy shower 
That falls in spring on leaf and bower, 
That I might weep the livelong day 
For erring man and hope's decay : 

For all the woe beneath the sun, 
For all the wrong to virtue done, 
For every soul to falsehood gain'd, 
For every heart by evil ptain'd : 

For man by man in durance held, 
For early dreams of joy dispell'd, 
For all the hope the world awakes 
In youthful hearts, and after bro.iks. 



But still, though hate, and fraud, and strife 
Have stain'd the shining web of life, 
Sweet Hope the glowing woof renews, 
In all its old, enchanting hues. 

Flow on, flow on, tTiou shining stream ! 
Beyond life's dark and changeful dream. 
There is a hope, there is a joy, 
This faithless world can ne'er destroy. 

Sigh on, sigh on, ye gentle winds . 
For stainless hearts and faithful miinU 
There is a blisd abiding true, 
That shall not pass and die like you. 

Shine on, shine on, thou glorious sun i 
When Day his latest course has run, 
On sinless hearts shall rise a light 
That ne'er shall set in gloomy night 



IMPROMPTU. 

ON SEEING AN IRIS FORMED BY THE SPRAY Of 
THE OCEAN AT ME/TOWN MALBAY. 

OH, sun-color'd breaker! when gazing on 
thee 

I think of the Eastern story, 
How beauty arose from the foam of the sea 

A creature of light and of glory. 
But, hark ! a hoarse answer is sent from the 
wave, 

" No Venus was never my daughter 
To golden-hair'd Iris her being I gave, 

Behold where she shines o'er the water." 



FRIENDSHIP. 

A WEARY time hath pass'd since last we 

parted ; 

Thy gentle eye was fill'd with sorrow, and 
I did not speak, but press'd thy trembling 

hand, 

Even in that hour of rapture, broken hearted. 
I have not seen thee since for thou art 

changed ; 
There sits a coldness on thy lip and brow- 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



213 



The look, the tone, the smile, are alter'd 

now, 

And all about, within thee, quite estranged. 
I have not seen thee since although per- 
chance, 
Among the heartless and the vain, on me 

O t 

All coldly courteous lights thy lovely glance. 

Yet art thou happier ? Oh, if such may be 

The love that Friendship vows give me 

again 
My heart, my days of peace, my lute, and 

listening plain. 



FAME. 

WHY hast thou lured me on, fond muse, to 

quit 

The path of plain dull worldly sense, and be 
A wanderer through the realms of thought 

with thee ; 
While hearts that never knew thy visitings 

sweet, 

Cold souls that mock thy quiet melancholy, 
Win their bright way up Fortune's glitter- 
ing wheel ; 

And we sit lingering here in darkness still, 
Scorn'd by the bustling sons of wealth and 

folly? 
Yet still thou whisperest in mine ear, "The 

day 

The day may be at hand when thou and I 
(The season of expectant pain gone by) 
Shall tread to Joy's bright porch a smiling 

way, 

And rising, not as once with hurried wing, 
To purer skies aspire, and hail a lovelier 
spring." 



WT7TTTEN IN ADARE IN 1820. 



upon a dark and sullen sea 
Over whose slumbering wave the night's 

mists hung, 
Till from the morn's gray breast a fresh 

wind sprung 
And sought its brightening bosom joyously ; 



Then fled the mists its quickening breath 

before ; 
The glad sea rose to meet it and each 

wave, 

Retiring from the sweet caress it gave, 
Made summer music to the listening shore. 
So slept my soul, unmindful of thy reign ; 
But the sweet breath of thy celestial grace, 
Hath risen oh, let its quickening spirit 

chase 
From that dark seat, each mist and secret 

stain, 

Till, as yon clear water, mirror'd fair, 
Heaven sees its own calm hues reflected 
there. 



THE WAKE OF THE ABSENT.' 

THE dismal yew and cypress tall, 

Wave o'er the churchyard lone, 
Where rest our friends and fathers all, 

Beneath the funeral stone. 
Unvex'd in holy ground they sleep : 

Oh, early lost ! o'er thee 
No sorrowing friend shall ever weep, 

Nor stranger bend the knee. 
Mo chuma ! lorn am I ! 
Hoarse dashing rolls the salt-sea wave 
Over our perish'd darling's grave. 

The winds the sullen deep that tore 

His death-song chanted loud, 
The weeds that line the clifted shore 

Were all his burial-shroud; 
For friendly wail and holy dirge 

And long lament of love, 
Around him roar'd the angry surge, 

The curlew scream'd above. 
Mo chuma ! lorn am I, 
My grief would turn to rapture now, 
Might I but touch that pallid brow. 

The stream-born bubbles soonest burst, 
That earliest left the source: 

1 It is the custom among the peasantry in gome parts of 
Ireland, when any member of a family has been lost at sea (or 
in any other way which renders the performance of the cus- 
tomary funeral rite impossible), to celebrate [he "wake." 
exactly in the same way at* if the corpse was actually present 



214 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Buds earliest blown are faded first, 

In Nature's wonU'd course ; 
With guarded pace her seasons creep, 

By slow decay expire, 
The young above the age'd weep, 

The son above the sire : 

Mo chuma ! lorn am I, 
That death a backward course should hold, 
To smite the young and spare the old. 



ON 



PULLING SOME CAMPANULAS 
IN A LADY'S GARDEN. 



On, weeds will haunt the loveliest scene 

The summer sun can see, 
And clouds will sometimes come between 

The truest friends that be. 
And thoughts unkind will come perchance, 

And haply words of blame, 
For pride is man's inheritance, 

And frailty is his name. 

Yet while I pace this leafy vale, 

That nursed thine infancy 
And hear in every passing gale 

A whisper'd sound of thee, 
My 'nighted bosom wakes anew 

To Feeling's genial ray, 
And each dark mist on Memory's view 

Melts into light away. 

The flowers that grace this shaded spot 

Low, lovely, and obscure 
Are like the joys thy friendship brought 

Unboasted, sweet, and pure. 
Now wither'd is their autumn blow, 

And changed their simple hue, 
Ah ! must it e'er be mine to know 

Their type is faded too ? 

Yet should those well-remember'd hours 

Return to me no more, 
And, like those cull'd and faded flowers, 

Their day of life be o'er 
In memory's fragrant shrine conceal'd, 

A sweeter joy they give, 
Than aught the world again can yield 

Or I again receive. 



THEY SPEAK OF SCOTLAND'S 
HEROES OLD. 

THEY speak of Scotland's heroes old, 
Struggling to make their country free, 

And in that hour my heart grows cold, 
For, Erin, then I think of thee ! 

They boast their Bruce of Bannockburn, 
Their noble Knight of Ellerslie ; 

To Erin's sons I proudly turn 
My country, then I smile for thee. 

They boast, though joiu'd to England*! 
power, 

Scotland ne'er bow'd to slavery ; 
An equal league in danger's hour 

My country, then I weep for thee. 

And when they point to our fair Isle, 
And say no patriot hearts have we, 

That party stains the work defile 
My country, then I blush for thee. 

But Hope says, " Blush or tear shall never 
Sully approving Fame's decree." 

When Freedom's word her bond shall sever 
My country, then I'll joy in thee. 

But oh ! be Scotland honor'd long, 

Be envy ever far from me, 
My simple lay meant her no wrong 

My country, it was but for thee ! 



O'BRAZIL, THE ISLE OF THE BLEST, 

A SPECTRE ISLAND, SAID TO BE SOMETIMES VISIBLE 
ON THE VERGE OF THE WESTERN HORI- 
ZON, IN THE ATLANTIC, FROM 
THE ISLES ON ARRAN. 

ON the ocean that hollows the rocks when 

ye dwell, 

A shadowy land has appear'd, as they tell ; 
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, 
And they call'd it O'Brazil, the Isle of the 

Blest. 
From year unto year, on the ocean's blue 

rim, 
The beautiful spectre show'd lovely and dim ; 




POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



215 



The golden clouds curtain'd the deep where 

it lay, 
And it look'd like an Eden, away, far away ! 

A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, 
In the breeze of the Orient loosen'd his sail; 
From Ara, the holy, he turn'd to the west, 
For though Ara was holy, O'Brazil was blest. 
He heard not the voices that call'd from the 

phore 

He hpurd not the rising wind's menacing roar; 
Horn-?, kindred, and safety he left on that day, 
And he sped to O'Brazil, away, far away ! 

Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy 

Isle, 
O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its 

smile ; 
Noon bwn'd on the wave, and that shadowy 

shore 

Seem'd lovelily distant, and faint as before : 
Tione evening came down on the wanderer's 

track, 

And to Ara again he look'd timidly back ; 
Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, 
Yet the Isle of the Blest was away, far away ! 

Rash dreamer, return ! O ye winds of the 

main, 
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara 

again ; 

Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss, 
To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. 
The warning of reason was spoken in vain, 
He never revisited Ara again ; 
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and 

spray, 
And he died on the waters, away, far away ! 

To you, gentle friends, need I pause to reveal 
The lessons of prudence my verses conceal ; 
How the phantom of pleasure seen distant 

in youth, 
Oft lures a weak heart from the circle of 

truth. 

All lovely it seems like that shadowy Isle, 
And the eye of the wisest is caught by its 

smile ; 

But, ah I for the heart it has tempted to stray 
From the sweet home of duty, away, far 

away ! 



Poor friendless adventurer ! vainly might he 
Look back to green Ara, along the wild sea ; 
But the wandering heart has a guardian 

above, 
Who, though erring, remembers the child of 

his love. 

Oh, who at the proffer of safety would spurn, 
When all that he asks is the will to return ; 
To follow a phantom, from day unto day, 
And die in the tempest, away, far away ! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A SEAGULL, 

SEEN OFF THE CLIFFS OF MOHER, IN THB 
COUNTY OF CLABE. 

WHITE bird of the tempest ! oh, beautiful 

thing, 
With the bosom of snow, and the motionless 

wing; 
Now sweeping the billow, now floating on 

high, 
Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the 

sky; 

Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form, 
Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so 

warm; 

Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn, 
Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn ; 
Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtain'd 

dome, 

Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam ; 
Now silently poised o'er the war of the main, 
Like the spirit of charity brooding o'er pain ; 
Now gliding with pinion, all silently furl'd, 
Like an Angel descending to comfort the 

world ! 

Thou seem'st to my spirit as upward I gaze, 
And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays, 
Now lost in the storm-driven vapors that fly 
Like hosts that are routed across the broad 

sky 

Like a pure spirit, true to its virtue and faith 
'Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and 

death ! 

Rise 1 beautiful emblem of purity ! rise 
On the sweet winds of heaven, to thine own 
brilliant skies, 



216 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Still higher ! still higher ! till lost to our 
sight, 

Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light ; 

And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee 

Must long for the moment the joyous and 
free 

When the soul, disembodied from nature, 
shall spring, 

Unfetter'd, at once to her Maker and King ; 

When the bright day of service and suffer- 
ing past, 

Shapes fairer than thine shall shine round 
her at last, 

While the standard of battle triumphantly 
furl'd, 

She smiles like a victor, serene on the world ! 



THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 

SHE once was a lady of honor and wealth, 

Bright glow'd on her features the roses of 
health ; 

Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, 

And her motion shook perfume from every 
fold: 

Joy revell'd around her love shone at her 
side, 

And gay was her smile, as the glance of a 
bride ; 

And light was her step, in the mirth-sound- 
ing hall, 

When she heard of the daughters of Vincent 
de Paul. 

She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, 
That call'd her to live for the suffering race ; 
And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of 

home, 
Rose quickly, like Mary, and answer'd, " I 

come !" 
She put from her person the trappings of 

pride, 
And pass'd from her home with the joy of a 

bride; 
Nor wept at the threshold, as onward she 

moved, 
For her heart was on fire, in the cause it 

approved. 



Lost ever to fashion to vanity lost, 

That beauty that once was the song and the 

toast, 

No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, 
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. 
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding 

name, 

For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; 
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, 
For she barters for Heaven the glory of earth. 

Those feetthatto music could gracefully move, 
Now bear her alone on the mission of love ; 
Those hands that once dangled the perfume 

and gem, 

Are tending the helpless or lifted for them ; 
That voice that once echo'd the song of the 

vain, 

Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; 
And the hair that was shining with diamond 

and pearl, 
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girL 

Her down-bed a pallet ; her trinkets a bead ; 
Her lustre one taper that serves her to read ; 
Her sculpture the crucifix nail'd by her bed ; 
Her paintings one print of the thorn- 

crown'd head ; 
Her cushion the pavement that wearies her 

knees ; 

Her music the psalm, or the sigh of disease ; 
The delicate lady lives mortified there, 
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and 

prayer. 

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind 
Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin 

confined ; 
Like Him whom she loves, to the mansion! 

of grief 

She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. 
She strengthens the weary she comforU 

the weak, 

And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; 
Where want and affliction on mortals attend, 
The Sister of Charity there is a friend. 

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters hii 

breath, 
Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapor > 

death ; 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



217 



Where rings the lond musket, nnd flashes 
the sword, 

Unfearing she walks, for she follows the 
Lord. 

How sweetly she bends o'er each plague- 
tainted face 

With looks that are lighted with holiest 
grace ! 

How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, 

For she sees in the wounded the image of 
Him! 

Behold her, ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! 
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and 

pain ; 
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and 

your days, 

Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. 
Ye lazy philosophers self-seeking men 
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen, 
How stands in the balance your eloquence 

weigh'd, 
With the life and the deeds of that high-born 

maid ? 



TO MEMORY. 

OH, come ! thou sadly pleasing power, 
Companion of the twilight hour 
Come, with thy sable garments flowing, 
Thy tearful smile, ail-brightly glowing 
Come, with thy light and noiseless tread 
As one belonging to the dead ! 
Come, with thy bright, yet clouded eye, 
Grant me thine aid, sweet Memory ! 

She comes, and pictures all again, 

The " wood-fringed" lake the rugged 

plain 

The mountain flower the valley's smile, 
And lovely InisfallenVisle. 
The rushing waters roaring by 
Our ringing laugh our raptured sigh, 
The waveless sea the varied shore 
The dancing boat the measured oar 
The lofty bugle's rousing cry 
The awaken'd mountains deep reply. 
Silence resuming then her reign, 
In awful pc wer, o'er hill and plain. 



She paints, and her unclouded dyes 
Can never fade, in feeling's eyes, 
For dipp'd in love's immortal stream, 
Through future years they'll brightly beam. 

Oh, prized and loved, though lately known, 
Forget not all, when we are gone 
Think how our friendship's well-knit band 
Waited not time's confirming hand. 
Think how despising forms control, 
Heart sprung to heart, and soul to soul 
And let us greet thee, far or near, 
As cherish'd friend as brother dear. 



THE SONG OF THE OLD MEN- 
DICANT. 

A MAN of threescore, with the snow on his 

brow, 

And the light of his aged eye dim, 
Oh, valley of sorrow ! what lure hast thon 

now, 

In thy changes of promise for him ? 
Gay Nature may smile, but his sight has 

grown old 

Joy sound, but his hearing is dull ; 
And pleasure may feign, but his bosom in 

cold, 
And the cup of his weariness full. 

Once warm with the pulses of young twenty- 
three, 

With plenty and ease in thy train, 
Thy fair visions wore an enchantment for me 

That never can gild them again. 
For changed are my fortunes, and early and 

late 

From dwelling to dwelling I go : 
And I knock with my staff at our first 

mother's gate, 
And I ask for a lodging below. 1 

Farewell to thee, Time ! in thy passage with 
me, 

One truth thou hast taught me to know, 
Though lovely the past and the future may be, 

The present is little but woe ; 

' This beautiftil sentiment occuro Ui Chnuccr 



218 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



For the sum of those joys that we find in 
life's way, 

Where thy silent wing still wafts us on, 
Is a hope for to-morrow a want for to-day, 

And a sigh for the times that are gone. 



WOULD YOU CHOOSE A FRIEND ? 

WOULD you choose a friend? Attend! attend! 

I'll teach you how to attain your end. 

He on whose lean and bloodless cheek 

The red grape leaves no laughing streak ; 

On whose dull white brow and clouded eye 

Cold thought and care sit heavily ; 
Him you must flee : 
'Tween you and me, 

That man is very bad company. 



And he around whoso jewell'd nose 
The blood of the red grape freely flows ; 
Whose pursy frame as he fronts the board 
Shakes like a wine-sack newly stored, 
In whose half-shut, moist, and sparkling 

eye 
The wine-god revels cloudily 

Him you must flee : 
'Tween you and me, 
That man is very bad company. 

But he who takes his wine in measure, 
Mingling wit and sense with pleasure, 
Who likes good wine for the joy it brings, 
And merrily laughs and gayly sings : 
With heart and bumper always full, 
Never maudlin, never dull, 

Your friend let him be : 
'Tween you and me, 
That man is excellent company. 



POEMS OF DEAN SWIFT. 



CORINNA. 

THIS day (the year I dare not tell) 
Apollo play'd the midwife's part ; 

Into the world Corinna fell, 

And he endow'd her with his art. 

But Cupid with a Satyr comes : 
Both softly to the cradle creep ; 

Both stroke her hands and rub her gums, 
While the poor child lay fast asleep. 

Then Cupid thus : " This little maid 
Of love shall always speak and write." 

** And I pronounce" (the Satyr said) 

" The world shall feel her scratch and hite." 



EPIGRAM. 

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his 

wife, 

He took to the streets and fled for his life : 
Tom's three dearest friends came by in the 

squabble, 
And saved him at once from the shrew and 

the rabble ; 

Then ventured to give him some sober ad- 
vice. 

But Tom is a person of honor so nice, 
Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take 

warning, 
That he sent to all three a challenge next 

morning ; 

Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life ; 
Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his 

wife. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW- 
PANE AT CHESTER. 

The Dean seems to hare been roused to anger at Cheater by 
the extortion of his landlord, if we may judge by some llnei 
beginning 

MY landlord is civil, 
But dear as the d 1 ; 



Your pockets grow empty. 
With nothing to tempt ye. 

And hie rage seems to hare been inflated to the degree of com 
signing the whole population to destruction as follows : 

THE walls of this town 

Are full of renown, 
And strangers delight to walk round 'em ; 

But as for the dwellers, 

Both buyers and sellers, 
For me, you may hang 'em or drown 'em. 



ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; 

OR THS 

RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY." 

WHBN Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat 
To form some beauty by a new receipt, 
Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene, 
Truth, innocence, good-nature, look serene : 
From which ingredients first the dexterous 

boy 

Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. 
The Graces from the Court did next provide 
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride : 
These Venus clears from every spurious grain 
Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain : 
Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employ'd 
Then call'd the happy composition Floyd. 



> An elegant Latin version of thi poem is in the tlztk 
Yolome of Drydeij'* Misrelhintp*. 



POEMS OF DEAN SWIFT. 



WOULD-BE POETS. 

ALL human race would fain be wits, 
And millions miss for one that hits. 
Young's universal passion, pride, 
Was never known to spread so wide. 
Say, Britain, could you ever boast 
Three poets in an age at most! 
Our chilling climate hardly bears 
A sprig of bays in fifty years; 
While every fool his claim alleges, 
As if it grew in common hedges. 
What reason can there be assigned 
For this perverseness in the mind ? 
Brutes find out where their talents lie- 
A bear will not attempt to fly; 
A foundered horse will oft debate 
Before he tries a five-barred gate; 
A dog by instinct turns aside, 
That sees the ditch too deep and wide. 
But man we find the only creature 
Who, led by Folly, combats Nature; 
Who, when she loudly cries Forbear, 
With obstinacy fixes there; 
And where his genius least inclines, 
Absurdly bends his whole designs. 

Not empire to the rising sun, 
By valor, conduct, fortune won; 
Not highest wisdom in debates, 
For framing laws to govern states; 
Not skill in sciences profound, 
So large to grasp the circle round; 
Such heavenly influence require, 
As how to strike the Muse's lyre. 



TWELVE ARTICLES. 

I. LEST it may more quarrels breed, 
I will never hear you read. 

II. By disputing I will never, 

To convince you, once endeavor. 

III. When a paradox you stick to, 
I will never contradict you. 

IV. When I talk and you are heedless, 
I will show no anger needless. 



V. When your speeches arc absurd, 
I will ne'er object a word. 

VI. When you, furious, argue wrong, 
I will grieve and hold my tongue. 

VII. Not a jest orliumorous story 
Will I ever tell before ye : 
To be chidden for explaining, 
When you quite mistake the meaning. 

VIII. Never more will I suppose 

You can taste my verse or prose. 

IX. You no more at me shall fret, 
While I teach and you forget. 

X. You shall never hear me thunder 
When you blunder on, and blunder. 

XI. Show your poverty of spirit, 

And in dress place all your merit; 
Give yourself ten thousand airs; 
That with me shall break no squares. 

XII. Never will I give advice 

Till you please to ask me thrice : 
Which if you in scorn reject, 
'Twill be just as I expect. 



LESBIA. 

LESBIA forever on me rails; 
To talk of me she never fails : 
Now, hang me, but, for all her art, 
I find that I have gain'd her heart. 

My proof is thus : I plainly see, 
The case is just the same with me; 
I curse her every hour sincerely, 
Yet, hang me, but I love her dearly. 



EPIGRAM 

ON THE BUSTS IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 

1732. 

LEWIS the living learned fed, 
And raised the scientific head : 
Our frugal Queen, 1 to save her meat, 
Exalts the head that cannot eat. 






'Quet-u Anne, 



THE POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 

BETTER KNOWN AS "FATHER PROUT." 



VERT-VERT, THE PARROT. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE JESUIT GREB6ET. 



ps origins 1 Siuiocence. 



what evils I discern in 
Too great an aptitude for learning ! 
And fain would all the ills unravel 
That aye ensue from foreign travel ; 
Far happier is the man who tarries 
Quiet withiu his household "Lures:" 
Read, and you'll find how virtue vanishes, 
How foreign vice all goodness banishes, 
And how abroad young heads will grow dizzy, 
Proved in the underwritten Odyssey. 

In old Nevers, so famous for its 
Dark narrow streets and Gothic turrets, 
Close on the brink of Loire's young flood, 
Flourished a convent sisterhood 
Of Ursulines. Now in this order 
A parrot lived as parlor-boarder ; 
Brought in his childhood from the AntiMes, 
And sheltered under convent mantles : 
Green were his feathers, green his pinions, 
And greener still were his opinions ; 
For vice had not yet sought to pervert 
This bird, who had been christened Vert- Vert , 
Nor could the wicked world defile him, 
Safe from its snares in this asylum. 
Fresh, in his teens, frank, gay, and gracious, 
And, to crown all, somewh;it loquacious; 

fwe examine close, not one, or he, 
Had a vocation for a nunnery. 1 

The convent's kindness need I mention I 
Need I detail each fond attention, 



1 " J'ar son oiqnet digne d'etre en couvmt' 



Or count the tit-bits which in Lent he 
Swallowed remorseless and in plenty f 
Plump was his carcass; no, not higher 
?ed was their confessor, the friar ; 
And some even say that our young Hector 
Was far more loved than the " Director.' 1 ' 
Dear to each novice aud each nun 
Se was the life and soul of fun ; 
Though, to be sure, some hags censorious 
Would sometimes find him too uproarious. 
What did the parrot care for those old 
Dames, while he had for him the household I 
He had not yet made his " profession," 
Nor come to years called " of discretion ;" 
Therefore, unblamed, he ogled, flirted, 
And romped like any unconverted ; 
Nay sometimes, too, by the Lord Hairy ! 
He'd pull their caps and " scapulary." 
But what in all his tricks seemed oddest, 
Was that at times he'd turn so modest, 
That to all bystanders the wight 
Appeared a finished hypocrite. 
In accent he did not resemble 
Kean, though he had the tones of Kcmbl* ; 
But fain to do the sisters' biddings, 
He left the stage to Mrs. Siddons. 
Poet, historian, judge, financier, 
Four problems at a time he'd answer 
He had a faculty like Cajsar's. 
Lord Althorp, baffling all his teazers, 
Could not surpass Vert- Vert in puzzling , 
"Goodrich" to him was but a gosling.' 



"gouvent I'oisean uii>ru ur te P*r." 

1 At this remote period it is forgotten that " Proaperitr SJUm 
on" was nlso known as "Goose Gi>udri<-h." when bM*uU) 
chancellor of the exchequer. O. V 



999 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY. 



Placed when at table near some vestal, 
His fare, be sure, was of the best all, 
For every sister would endeavor 
To keep for him some sweet hors d'auvre. 
Kindly at heart, in spite of vows and 
Cloisters, a nun is worth a thousand ! 
And aye, if Heaven would only lend her, 
I'd have a nun for a nurse tender ! ' 

Then, when the shades of night would come on, 
And to their cells the sisters summon, 
Happy the favored one whose grotto 
This sultan of a bird would trot to : 
Mostly the young ones' cells he toyed in 
(The aged sisterhood avoiding), 
Sure among all to find kind offices, 
Still he was partial to the novices, 
And in 'their cells our anchorite 
Mostly cast anchor for the night ; 
1'erched on the box that held the relic*, he 
Slept without notion of indelicacy. 
Rare was his luck ; nor did he spoil it 
By flying from the morning toilet ; 
Not that I can admit the fitness 
Of (at the toilet) a male witness ; 
But that I scruple in this history 
To shroud a single fact in mystery. 

Quick at all arts, our bird was rich at 
That best accomplishment, called chit-chat; 
For, though brought up within the cloister, 
His beak was not closed like an oyster, 
But, trippingly, without a stutter, 
The longest sentences would utter ; 
Pious withal, and moralizing 
His conversation was surprising ; 
None of your equivoques, no slander 
To such vile tastes he scorned to pander ; 
But his tongue ran most smooth and nice on 
" Deo sit laus" and " Kyrie eleison ;" 
The maxims he gave with best emphasis 
Were Snarez's or Thomas a Kempis's ; 
In Christmas carols he was famous, 
" Orate, fratres," and " OREMUS ;" 
If in good humor, he was wont 
To give a stave from "Think well on't "' 
Or, by particular desire, he 
Would chant the hymn of " Dies irse." 

1 "Les petite solns, les attentions fine*, 
8ont n&s, dit on, ebez lea Ureulinea," 

" Pensez-y-bien," or ' Think well on'*," as translated by the 
Mtular bishop, Richard Chnlloner, is the most generally adopted 
Vyotional tract among the Catholics of these Islands. Pmour. 



Then in the choir he would amaze all 
By copying the tone so nasal 
In which the sainted sisters chanted 
(At least that pious nun 107 aunt did), 

jB}s fatall XUnotame. 

The public soon began to ferret 
The hidden nest of so much merit, 
And, spite of all the nuns' endeavors, 
The fame of Vert- Vert filled all Never* ; 
Nay, from Moulines folks came to stare at 
The wondrous talent of this parrot; 
And to fresh visitors ad libitum 
Sister Sophie had to exhibit him. 
Drest in her tidiest robes, the virgin, 
Forth from the convent cells emerging, 
Brings the bright bird, and for his plumage 
First challenges unstinted homage ; 
Then to his eloquence adverts, 
" What preacher's can surpass Vert- Vert'* f 
Truly in oratory few men, 
Equal this learned catechumen; 
Fraught with the convent'* choicest lessons, 
And stuffed with piety's quintessence ; 
A bird most quick of apprehension, 
With gifts and graces hard to mention : 
Say in what pulpit can you meet 
A Chrysostom half so discreet, 
Who'd follow in his ghostly mission 
So close the ' fathers and tradition ? ' " 
Silent meantime, the feathered hermit 
Wait* for the sister's gracious permit, 
When, at a signal from his mentor, 
Quick on a course of speech he'll enter ; 
Not that he cares for human glory, 
Bent but to save his auditory ; 
Hence he pours forth with so much nnctio* 
That all his hearer* feel compunction. 

Thus for a time did Vert-Vert dwell 
Safe in his holy citadelle ; 
Scholared like any well-bred abbe, 
And loved by many a cloistered Hebe ; 
You'd swear that he had crossed the same bridge- 
As any youth brought up in Cambridge. 1 
Other monk* starve themselves ; but his skin 
Was sleek like that of a Franciscan, 
And far more clean ; for this grave Solon 
Bathed every day in eau de Cologne. 

* Qiuvt Poni Aitnoraro j 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



223 



Thus he indulged each guiltless gambol, 
Blessed had he ne'er been doomed to ramble 1 

For in his life there came a crisis . 
Such as for all great men arises, 
Such as what NAP to Russia led. 
Such as the " FLIGHT" of Mahomed ; 
O town of Nantz ! yes, to thy bosom 
We let him go, alas ! to lose him ! 
Edicts, town famed for revoking, 
Still was Vert- Vert's loss more provoking! 
Dark be the day when our bright Don went 
From this to a far-distant convent ! 
Two words comprise that awful era 
Words big with fate and woe "!L IRA 1" 
Yes, " he shall go ;" but, sisters ! mourn ye 
The disrnal fruits of that sad journey, 
Ills on which Nantz's nuns ne'er reckoned, 
When for the beauteous bird they beckoned. 

Fame, Vert- Vert ! in evil humor, 
One day to Nantz had brought the rumor 
Of thy accomplishments, "acumen," 
"Novf," and "esprit" quite superhuman : 
All these reports but served to enhance 
Thy merits with the nuns of Nantz. 
flow did a matter so nnsuited 
For convent ears get hither bruited f 
Some may inquire. But " nuns are knowing," 
"And first to hear what gossip's going." ' 
Forthwith they taxed their wits to elicit 
From the famed bird a friendly visit. 
Girls' wishes run in a brisk current, 
But a nun's fancy is a torrent ; * 
To get this bird they'd pawn the missal ; 
Quick they indite a long epistle, 
Careful with softest things to fill it, 
And then with musk perfume the billet ; 
Thus, to obtain their darling purpose, 
They send a writ of habeas corpus. 

Off goes the post. When will the answer 
Free them from doubt's corroding cancer f 
Nothing can equal their anxiety, 
Except, of course, their well-known piety. 
Things at Nevers meantime went harder 
Than well would suit such pious ardor ; 
It was no easy job- to coax 
This parrot from the Nevers folks. 

1 "La reverendes mer 

A tout uvolr ne sont pas lea cli-rntf res." 
1 " Deslr do fllle est un feu qni dfivora, 

Deslr de Donne est cent fois pis encore" 



What, take their toy from convent belles! 
Make Russia yield the Dardanelles ! 
Filch his good rifle from a " Suliote,'' 
Or drag her " Romeo" from a " Juliet ! " 
Make an attempt to take Gibraltar, 
Or try the old corn laws to alter ! 
This seemed to them, and eke to us, 
" Most wasteful and ridiculous." 
Long did the " chapter" sit in state, 
And on this point deliberate ; 
The junior members of the senate 
Set their fair faces quite again' it ; 
Refuse to yield a point so tender, 
And urge the motto No surrender. 
The elder nuns feel no great scruple 
In parting with the charming pupil ; 
And as each grave affair of state runs 
Most on the verdict of the matrons, 
Small odds, I ween, and poor the chance 
Of keeping the dear bird from Nantz. 
Nor in my surmise am I far out 
For by their vote off goes the parrot. 



Ml 

Un ce terns 1&, a small canal-uoat, 
Called by most chroniclers the '' Talbot," 
(TALBOT, a name well known in France I) 
Travelled between Nevers and Nan-tz. 
Vert-Vert took shipping in this craft, 
'Tis not said whether fore or aft ; 
But in a book as old as Massinger's 
We find a statement of the passengers ; 
These were two Gascons and a piper, 
A sexton (a notorious swiper), 
A brace of children, and a nurse; 
But what was infinitely worse, 
A dashing Cyprian ; while by her 
Sat a most jolly-looking friar.' 

For a poor bird brought up in purity 
'Twas a sad augur for futurity 
To meet, just free from his indentures, 
And in the first of his adventures, 
Such company as formed his hansel, 
Two rogues ! a friar ! ! and a damsel ! 1 1 
Birds the above were of a feather ; 
But to Vert- Vert 'twas altogether 
Such a strange aggregate of scandals 
As to be met but among Vandals ; 

1 u Tine nourrice, an moine, dens Gaaooni ; 
Pour an enfant qui sort da monastery 
C'etait echolr en digues compagnons." 



224 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Rude was their talk, bereft of polish, 
And calculated to demolish 
All tlie fine notions and good-breeding 
Taught by the nuns in their sweet Eden. 
No Billingsgate surpassed the nurse's, 
And all the rest indulged in curses; 
E;ir hath not heard such vulgar gab in 
The nautio cell of any cabin. 
Silent and sad, the pensive bird, 
Shocked at their guilt, said not a word. 1 

Now he "of orders gray,"' accosting 

The parrot green, who seemed quite lost in 

The contemplation of man's wickedness. 

And the bright river's gliding liquidness, 

" Tip us a stave (quoth Tuck), my darling, 

Ain't you a parrot or a starling? 

If you don't talk, by the holy poker, 

I'll give that neck of yours a choker 1'' 

Scared by this threat from his propriety, 

Our pilgrim thinking with sobriety, 

That if he did not speak they'd make him, 

Answered the friar, PAX sir TECUM ! 

Here our reporter marks down after 

Poll's maiden-speech "loud roars of laughter;" 

And sure enough the bird so affable 

Could hardly use a phrase more laughable. 

Talking of such, there are some rum ones 
That oft amuse the House of Commons: 
And since we lost " Sir Joseph Yorke" 
We've got great " Feargus " fresh from Cork, 
A fellow honest, droll, and funny, 
Who would not sell for love or money 
His native land : nor, like vile Daniel, 
Fawn on Lord Althorp like a spaniel ; 
Flatter the mob, while the old fox 
Keeps an eye to the begging-box. 
Now 'tis a shame that such brave fellows, 
When they blow " agitation's " bellows, 
Should only meet with heartless scoffers, 
While cunning Daniel fills his coffers. 
But Kerrymen will e'er be apter 
At the conclusion of the chapter, 
While others bear the battle's brunt, 
To reap the spoil and fob the blunt. 



1 This canal-boat, It would seem, was not a very refined or 
fashionable conveyance; it rather remlndeth of Hoi ace's voyage 
to Brundusium. and of that line so applicable to the parrot's com- 



Kepletuin nautis, caupoiiit.us, atque malignis." 



0. T. 



This is an episode concerning 

The parrot's want of worldly learning, 

In squandering his tropes and figures 

On a vile crew of heartless niggers. 

The " house" heard once with more decorum 

Phil. Howard on "the Roman forum."* 

Poll's brief address met lots of cavillers ; 
Badgered by all his fellow-travellers, 
He tried to mend a speech so ominous 
By striking up with ' DIXIT DOMINUS ! " 
But louder shouts of laughter follow, 
This last roar beats the former hollow, 
And shows that it was bad economy 
To give a stave from Deuteronomy. 

Posed, not abashed, the bird refused to 
Indulge a scene he was not used to; 
And, pondering on this strange reception, 
"There must," he thought, " be some deceptioi 
In the nuns' views of things rhetorical, 
And sister Rose is not an oracle. 
True wit, perhaps, lies not in 'matins' 

Nor is their school a school of Athens " 



Thus in this villanous receptacle 
The simple bird at once grew skeptical. 
Doubts lead to hell. The arch-deceiver 
Soon made of Poll an unbeliever ; 
And mixing thus in bad society, 
He took French leave of all his piety. 

His austere maxims soon he mollified, 
And all his old opinions qualified ; 
For he had learned to substitute 
For pious lore things more astute ; 
Nor was his conduct unimpeachable, 
For youth, alas ! is but too teachable; 
And in the progress of his madness 
Soon he had reached the depths of badness. 
Such were his curses, such his evil 
Practices, that no ancient devil, ' 
Plunged to the chin when burning hot 
Into a holy water-pot, 
Could so blaspheme, or fire a volley 
Of oaths so drear and melancholy. 



* See " Mirror of Parliament" for thil ingenious person's 
speech on Joe Hume's motion to alter and enlarge the old Hou? 
of Commons. " Sir, the Rumiim (a laugh) I lay the Romant 
(loud laughter) ntver altered, their forum" (roars of ditto), but 
Heaven soon granted what Joe Hume desired, and the old rookery 
was burnt shortly after. 

1 ' Bicntot il scut jurer et mougr&er 

Mitux qu'un vloux diable au fond d'un benltiar." 









POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY. 



225 



Must the bright blossoms, ripe and ruddy, 
And the fair fruits of early study, 
Thus in tneir summer season crossed, 
Meet a sad blight a killing frost ? < 

Must that vile demon, Moloch, oust 
Heaven from n young heart's holocaust ? ' 
nd the glad hope of life's young promise 
Thus in the dawn of youth ebb from us ? 
'Such is, alas ! the sad and last trophy 
Of the young rake's supreme catastrophe ; 
For of what use are learning's laurels 
When a young man is without morals ? 
Bereft of virtue, and grown heinous, 
What signifies a brilliant genius ? 
Tis but a case for wail and mourning, 
but a brand fit for the burning ! 



Meantime the river wafts the barge, 
Fraught with its miscellaneous charge, 
Smoothly upon its broad expanse, 
Up to the very quay of Nantz ; 
Fondly within the convent bowers 
The sisters calculate the hours, 
Chiding the breezes for their tardiness, 
And, in the height of their fool-hardiness, 
Picturing 1 the bird as fancy painted 
Lovely, reserved, polite, and sainted 
Fit "Ursuline." And this, I trow, meant 
Enriched with every endowment ! 
Sadly, alas ! these nuns anointed 
Will find their fancy disappointed ; 
When, to meet all those hopes they drew on, 
They'll find a regular DON JUAN 1 



JTIle atofull Discoberfe. 

Scarce in the port was this small craft 
On its arrival telegraphed, 
When, from the boat home to transfer him, 
Came the nuns' portress, " sister Jerome." 
Well did the parrot recognize 
The walk demure and downcast eyes; 
Nor aught such saintly guidance relished 
A bird by worldly arts embellished ; 
'Such was his taste for profane gayety, 
He'd rather much go with the laity. 

Fast to the bark he clung; but plucked 
thence, 



' "Faut-il qu'alnst 1'exemplo seduotonr 

Da clel an (liable einporto an jeune eaar?" 



He showed dire symptoms of reluctance. 
And, scandalizing each beholder, 
Bit the nun's cheek, and eke her shoulder!' 
Thus a black eagle once, 'tis said, 
Bore off the struggling Ganymede.* 
Thus was Vert-Vert, heart-sick and weary, 
Brought to the heavenly monastery. 
The bell and tidings both were tolled, 
And the nuns crowded, young and old, 
To feast their eyes with joy uncommon on 
This wondrous talkative phenomenon. 

Round the bright stranger, so amazing 
And so renowned, the sisters gazing, 
Praised the green glow which a warm latitude 
Gave to his neck, and liked his attitude. 
Some by his gorgeous tail are smitten, 
Some by his beak so beauteous bitten ! 
And none e'er dreamt of dole or harm in 
A bird so brilliant and so charming. 
Shade of Spurzheim ! and thou, Lavater, 
Or Gall, of " bumps " the great creator ! 
Can ye explain how our young hero, 
With all the vices of a Nero, 
Seemed such a model of good-breeding, 
Thus quite astray the convent leading! 
Where on his head appeared, I ask from ye, 
The "nob" indicative of blasphemy? 
Methinks 'twould puzzle your ability 
To find his organ of scurrility. 

Meantime the abbess, to " draw out " 

A bird so modest and devout, 

With soothing air and tongue caressing 

The " pilgrim of the Loire " addressing, 

Broached the most edifying topics, 

To "start" this native of the tropics; 

When, to their scandal and amaze, he 

Broke forth " Morbleu! those nuns are crazy I* 

(Showing how well he learnt his task on 

The packet-boat from that vile Gascon !) 

" Fie ! brother poll !" with zeal outbursting, 

Exclaimed the abbess, dame Augustin ; 

But all the lady's sage rebukes 

Brief answer got from poll " Gadzooks !" 

Nay, 'tis supposed, he nuttered, too, 

A word folks write with W. 



Lea nns dlsent an con, 
D'antrea an bras; on no salt pas Man Dii." 

"Qualein minlstrum fulmlnla alitem. 

Unt rex deorutn regnum la avea vagoa 
Cummlslt, expertns fldelem 
Jupiter In Ganymede flavo." HML 



226 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 



Scared at the sound " Sure as a gun, 

Tin: bird's a demon !" cried the nun. 

" O the vile wretch ! the naughty dog ! 

He's surely Lucifer incog. 

What! is the reprobate before us 

That bird so pious and decorous 

So celebrated ?" Here the pilgrim, 

Hearing sufficient to bewilder him, 

Wound up the sermon of the beldame 

By a conclusion heard but seldom 

" Ventre Saint Gris !" " Parbleu !" and " Sacre !" 

Three oaths! and every one a whacker I 

Still did the nuns, whose conscience tender 
Was much shocked at the young offender, 
Hoping he'd change his tone, and alter, 
Hang breathless round the sad defaulter : 
When, wrathful at their importunity, 
And grown audacious from impunity, 
He fired a broadside (holy Mary !) 
Drawn from Hell's own vocabulary ! 
Forth like a Congreve rocket burst, 
And stormed and swore, flared up and caned 1 
Stunned at these sounds of import stygian, 
The pious daughters of religion 
Fled from a scene so dreaa, o horrid, 
But with a cross first signed their forehead. 
The younger sisters, mifll and meek, 
Thought that the culprit spoke in Greek; 
But the old matrons and '' the bench " 
Knew every word was genuine French ; 
And ran in all directions, pell-mell, 
From a flood fit to overwhelm hell. 
'Twas by a fall that Mother Ruth 1 
Then lost her last remaining tooth. 



" Fine conduct this, and pretty guidance 1" 
Cried one of the most mortified ones ; 
" Pray, is such language and such ritual 
Among the Nevers nuns habitual ? 
'Twas in our sisters most improper 
To loach such curses such a whopper! 
He shan't by me, for one, be hindered 
From being sent back to his kindred !" 
Tliis prompt decree of Poll's proscription 
Was signed by general subscription. 
Straight in a cage the nuns insert 
Tho guilty person of Vert-Vert; 

1 "Twites pensent etre a la On dn mond*. 
Et sur son nez la mere Cnnegonde 
Be laissant cheoir, perd sa dernlere detP 



Some young ones wanted to detain him ; 
But the grim portress took "the paynim" 
Back to the boat, close in his litter ; 
"Tis not said this time that he lit her. 



Back to the convent of his youth, 
Sojourn of innocence and truth, 
Sails the green monster, scorned and hated, 
His heart with vice contaminated. 
Must I tell how, on his return, 
He scandalized his old sojourn ? 
And how the guardians of his infancy 
Wept o'er their quondam child's delinquency? 
What could be done ? the elders olten 
Met to consult how best to soften 
This obdurate and hardened sinner, 
Finished in rice ere a beginner! 1 
One mother counselled " to denounce 
And let the Inquisition pounce 
On the vile heretic ;" another 
Thought " it was best the bird to smother f 
Or "send the convict for his felonies 
Back to his native land the colonies." 
But milder views prevailed. His sentence 
Was, that, until he showed repentance, 
" A solemn fast and frugal diet, 
Silence exact, and pensive quiet, 
Should be his lot ;" and, for a blister 
He got, as jailer, a lay-sister, 
Ugly as sin, bad-tempered, jealous, 
And in her scruples over-zealous. 
A jug of water and a carrot 
Was all the prog she'd give the parrot : 
But every eve when vesper-bell 
Called sister Rosalie from her cell, 
She to Vert- Vert would gain admittance, 
And bring of " comfits" a sweet pittance. 
Comfits ! alas ! can sweet confections 
Alter sour slavery's imperfections ? 
What are " preserves" to yon or me, 
When locked up in the Marshalsea ? 
The sternest virtue in the hulks, 
Though crammed with richest sweetmeats, sulk* 

Taught by his jailer and adversity, 
Poll saw the folly of perversity, 



* Implicit in terminit. There mnst hT been a begin .hi(c. elM 
bow conceive ijlnith (see Kant), unless the proposltioj ! Orel- 
las Lacunas be adopted, viz., avap%oi tai ariAniraiw * . 
Gresset limply bri It 

" II fat on scelerat 
Protes d'abord, et tans noviciat" 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



227 




ind by degrees his heart relented : 
)uly, in fine, " the lad" repented, 
lis Lent passed on, and sister Bridget 
Coaxed the old abbess to abridge it. 

The piodigal, reclaimed and free, 
Became again a prodigy, 
And gave more joy, by works and words, 
Than ninety-nine canary-birds, 
Until his death. Which last disaster 
(jSothing on earth endures 1) came faster 
Then they imagined. The transition 
From a starved to a stuffed condition, 
From penitence to jollification, 
Brought on a lit of constipation. 
Some think he would be living still, 
If given a " Vegetable Pill ;" 
But from a short life, and a merry, 
Poll sailed one day per Charon's ferry. 



By tears from nuns' sweet eyelids wept, 
,ppy in death this parrot slept, 
For him Elysium oped its portals, 
And there he talks among immortals. 
But I have read, that since that happy day 
(80 writes Cornelius a Lapide, 1 

'roving, with commentary droll, 
The transmigration of the soul), 

hat still Vert-Vert this earth doth haunt, 
Of convent bowers a visitant ; 
And that, gay novices among, 
He dwells, transformed into a tongue 1 



1 This author appears to have been a favorite with Front, who 
takes every opportunity of recording bis predilection. Had the Or- 
der, however, produced only such writers as Cornelius, we fear 
tbere would have been little mention of the Jesuiti in connection 
with literature. Cresset's opinion on the matter Is contained in 
an epistle to his confrere P. Boujeant, author of the ingenious 
treatise Sur PAme dee Mtet : 

Moins reverend qu'airaable pere, 
Yons dont 1'esprit, le caractero, 

Et Its airs, ne sont point monies 
Bur le ton sottement austere 

De cent tristes paternltes, 
Qui, manquant du talent lie platre, 

Et de tonte legerete. 
Pour dissimuler la nilsere 

D'un esprit sans amenite, 

Afflchent la severity ; 
Et ne sortant de leur taniero 
Que sous la lugubre banniere 

De la grave formalite, 
Heritiors de la trlste enclnme 

De quelque pedant Ignore, 
Beforgent quelqne lourd volume, 

Aux antres Latins enterre. 



THE SILKWORM. A POEM. 

i 

From the Latin of JEROME VIDA. 
CANTO FIRST. 
I. 

LIST to my lay, daughter of Lombardy, 
Hope of Gonzaga's house, fair Isabelle J 

Graced with thy name, the simplest melody,. 
Albeit from rural pipe or rustic shell, 
Might all the music of a court excel ; 

Light though the subject of my song may 

seem, 
'Tis one on which thy spirit loves to dwell ; 

Nor on a tiny insect dost thou deem 
Thy poet's labor lost, nor frivolous my theme. 

n. 

For thou dost often meditate how hence 
Commerce deriveth aliment; how Art 

May minister to native opulence, 

The wealth of foreign lands to home impart, 
And make of ITALY the general mart. 

These are thy goodly thoughts how best to 

raise, 
Thy country's industry. A patriot heart 

Beat in thy gentle breast no vulgar praise i 
Be then this spinner-worm the hero of my lay 

ill. 

Full many a century it crept, the child 
Of distant China or the torrid zone ; 

Wasted its web upon the woodlands wild, 
And spun its golden tissue all alone, 
Clothing no reptile's body but its own.* 

So crawled a brother-worm o'er mount wid 

glen. 
Uncivilized, uncouth ; till, social grown, 

He sought the cities and the haunts of men 
Science and Art soon tamed the forest denizen. 

IV. 

Rescued from woods, now under friendly roof 
. Fostered and fed, and sheltered from th 

blast, 
Full soon the wondrous wealth of warp and 

woof 

Wealth by these puny laborers amassed, 
Repaid the hand that spread their green re- 
past : 
Right merrily they plied their jocund toil, 



* Tenul ncc hollos nee gloria fllo 1 



228 



POEMS OF FhANCIS MAHONY. 



And from their mouths the silkeu treasures; 

cast, 

Twisting their canny thread in many a coil, 
While men looked on and smiled, and hailed the 
shining spoil. 

v. 

Sweet is the poet's ministry to teach 
How the wee operatives should be fed ; 

Their wants and changes ; what befitteth each ; 
What mysteries attend the genial bed, 
And how successive progenies are bred. 

Happy if he his countrymen engage 

In paths of peace and industry to tread ; 

Happier the poet still, if o'er his page 
Fair ISABELLA'S een shed radiant patronage ! 



ft, 

Thou, then, who wouldst possess a creeping 

flock 

Of silken sheep, their glossy fleece to shear, 
Learn of their days how scanty is the stock : 
Barely two months of each recurring year 
Make up the measure of their brief career ; 
They spin their little hour, they weave their 

ball, 

And, when their task is done, then disap- 
pear 

Within that silken dome's sepulchral hall ; 
And the third moon looks out upon their funeral. 

VII. 

Theirs is, in truth, a melancholy lot, 
Never the offspring of their loves to see ! 

The parent of a thousand sons may not 
Spectator of his children's gambols be, 
Or hail the birth of his young family. 

From orphan-eggs, fruit of a fond embrac*, 
Spontaneous hatched, an insect tenantry 

Creep forth, their sires departed to replace : 
Thus, posthumously born, springs up an annual 
race. 

vin. 

Still watchful lest their birth be premature, 
From the sun's wistful eye remove the seed, 

While yet the season wavers insecure, 

While yet no leaves have budded forth to 

feed 
With juicy provender the tender breed ; 



Nor usher beings into life so uew 

Without provision 'twere a cruel deed ! 
Ah, such improvidence men often rue ! 
'Tis a sad, wicked thing, if Malthus telleth iruo 

IX. 

But when the vernal equinox is passed, 
And the gay mulberry in gallant trim 

Hath robed himself in verdant vest at last 
(Tis well to wait until thou seest him 
With summer-garb of green on every limb), 

Then is thy time. Be cautious still, nor risk 
Thine enterprise while the moon is dim, 

But tarry till she hangeth out her disk, 
Replenished with full light, then breed thy spin- 
ners brisk. 

z. 

Methiuks that here some gentle maiden begs 
To know how best this genial deed is done :- 
Some on a napkin strew the little eggs, 

And simply hatch their silkworms in the 

sun ; 

But there's a better plan to fix upon. 
Wrapt in a muslin kerchief, pure and warm, 

Lay them within thy bosom safe ;' nor shun 
Nature's kind office till the tiny swarm 
Begins to creep. Fear not ; they cannot do the 
harm. 

XI. 

Meantime a fitting residence prepare, 
Wherein thy pigmy artisans may dwell, 

And furnish forth their factory with care : 
Of seasoned timber build the spinner's celL 
And be it lit and ventilated well ; 

And range them upon insulated shelves, 
Rising above each other parallel : 

There let them crawl there let the little el vo 
On carpeting of leaf gayly disport themselves. 

XII. 

And be their house impervious both to rain 
And to th' inclemency of sudden cold : 

See that no hungry sparrow entrance gain, 
To glut his maw and desolate the fold, 
Ranging among his victims uncontrolled. 

Nay, I have heard that once a wicked hen 
Obtained admittance by manoeuvre bold, 

1 Tu comle itnn Yltmln tecU, 
NM pudemt rowu lntr fovUM pcplllw 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY. 



229 



Slaughtering the insects in their little den ; 
If I had caught her there, she had not come 
again. 

XIII. 

Stop up each crevice in the silkworm house, 
Each gaping orifice be sure to fill ; 

For oftentimes a sacrilegious mouse 
Will fatal inroad make, intent on ill. 
And in cold blood the gentle spinners kill. 1 

Ah, cruel wretch ! whose idol is thy belly, 
The blood of innocence why dost thou spill ? 

Dost thou not know that silk is in that jelly ? 
Go forth, and seek elsewhere a dish of vermicelli. 

XIV. 

When thy young caterpillars 'gin to creep, 
Spread them with care upon the oaken 

planks ; 

And let them learn from infancy to keep 
Their proper station, and preserve their 

ranks 

Not crawl at random, playing giddy pranks. 
Let them be taught their dignity, nor seek, 
Dressed in silk gown, to act like mounte- 
banks : 

Tnus careful to eschew each vulgar freak, 
Sober they maun grow up, industrious and meek. 

XV. 

Their minds kind Nature wisely pre-arranged, 

And of domestic habits made them fond ; 
Rarely they roam, or wish their dwelling 

changed, 

Or from their keeper's vigilance abscond : 
Pleased with their home, they travel not be- 
yond. 
Else, woe is me ! it were a bitter potion 

To hunt each truant and each vagabond : 
Haply of such attempts they have no notion, 
Nor on their heads is seen " the bump of loco- 
motion." 

XVI. 

The same kind Nature (who doth all things 

right) 

Their stomachs hath from infancy imbued 
Straight with a most tremendous appetite ; 
And till the leaf they love is o'er them 

strewed, 
Their little mouths wax clamorous for food. 

' Improbuyirreptat tnbulis, svttque pr omnM, 
Cede niadens, etc., etc 



For their first banquetings this plan adopt 

Cull the most tender leaves in all the wood, 
And let them, ere upon the worms they're 

dropped, 

Be minced for their young teeth, and diligently 
chopped. 

xvn. 

Passed the first week, an epoch will begin, 

A crisis which maun all thy care engage ; 
For then the little asp will cast his skin. 
Such change of raiment marks each separate 

stage 
Of childhood, youthhood, manhood, and 

old age : 
A gentle sleep gives token when he means 

To doff his coat for seemlier equipage ; 
Another and another supervenes, 
And then he is, I trow, no longer in his teens. 

XVIII. 

Until that period, it importeth much, 

That no ungentle hand, with contact rude, 

Visit the shelves. Let the delightful touch 
Of Italy's fair daughters fair and good! 
Administer alone to that young brood. 

Mark how yon maiden's breast wiih pity 

yearns, 
Tending her charge with fond solicitude, 

Hers be the blessing she so richlv earns ! 

O * 

Soon may she see her own wee brood of bonnj 
bairns ! 

XIX. 

Foliage, fresh gathered for immediate use, 

Be the green pasture of thy silken sheep, 
For when ferments the vegetable juice, 

They loathe the leaves, and from th' nn 

tasted heap 

With disappointment languishingly creep. 
Hie to the forest, evening, noon, an\d morn ; 

Of brimming baskets quick succession keep 
Let the green grove for them be freely shorn, 
And smiling Plenty void her well-replenished 
horn. 

xx. 

Pleasant the murmurs of their mouths to 

hear, 
While as they ply the plentiful repast, 

The dainty leaves demolished, disappear 
One after one. A fresh supply is cast 
That, like the former, vanisheth as fast. 



230 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



But, cautious of repletion (well yclept 

The fatal fount of sickness), cease at last ; 
Fling no more food, their fodder intercept, 
And be it laid aside, and for their supper kept. 



zzi. 

To gaze upon the dew-drop's glittering gem, 
T inhale the moisture of the morning air, 
Is pleasantness to us; 'tis death to them. 
Shepherd, of dank humidity beware, 
Moisture maun vitiate the freshest fare ;' 
Cull not the leaves at the first hour of prime, 
"While yet the sun his arrows through the 

air 

Shoots horizontal. Tarry till he climb 
Half his meridian height : then is thy harvest- 
time. 

XXII. 

There be two sisters of the mulberry race, 1 
One of complexion dark and olive hue; 

Of taller figure and of fairer face, 

The other wins and captivates the view, 
And to maturity grows quicker too. 

Oft characters with color correspond ; 

Nathless the silkworm neither will eschew, 

He is of both immoderately fond 
Still he doth dearly love the gently blooming 
blonde. 

XXIII. 

With milder juice and more nutritious milk 

She feedeth him, though delicate and pale ; 
Nurtured by her he spins a finer silk, 

And her young sucklings, vigorous and 

hale, 

Aye o'er her sister's progeny prevail. 
Her paler charms more appetite beget, 

On which the creepers greedily regale : 
She bears the bell in foreign lands ; and yet 
Our brown Italian maids prefer the dark bru- 
nette. 1 

xxrv. 
The dark brunette, more bountiful of leaves, 

With less refinement more profusion shows; 
But often such redundancy deceives. 

1 Pabula semper 

Sicca legant, nultfque fluant wperglne sylva. 
1 Eat bicolor mortis, boinbyx vescetar ntrdque 
Nlgra alhensve mat, etc., etc. 

The worm will always prefer to nibble the whIU mnlberrr-trM, 
ad will quit the black for It readily. 

Quamvis Ausonlls laucletur ill ji* puellis. 



What though the ripened berry ruddier 

glows 

Upon these tufted branches than on those! 
Due is the preference to the paler plant : 

Then her to rear thy tender nurslings choose, 
Her to thy little orphans' wishes grant, 
Nor use the darker leaves unless the white be 
scant. 

XXV. 

OVID has told a tender tale of THISBK, 

Who found her lifeless lover lying pale 
Under a spreading mulberry. Let this be 
The merit and the moral of that tale. 
Sweet is thy song, in sooth, love's nightin- 
gale I 
But hadst thou known that, nourished from 

that tree, 

Love's artisans would spin their tissue frail, 
Thou never wouldst of so much misery 
Have laid the scene beneath a spreading mu) 
berry. 

XXVI. 

Now should a failure of the mulberry crop 
Send famine to the threshold of thy door 

Do not despair : but, climbing to the top 
Of the tall elm, or kindred sycamore, 
Young budding germs with searching ey 
explore. 

Practise a pious fraud upon thy flock, 

With false supplies and counterfeited store ; 

Thus for a while their little stomachs mock, 
Until thou canst provide of leaves a genuine stock. 

XXVII. 

But ne'er a simple village maiden ask 

To climb on trees, 4 for her was never meant 

The rude exposure of such uncouth task ; 
Lest while she tries the perilous ascent, 
On pure and hospitable thoughts intent, 

A wicked faun, that lurks, behind soma bush, 
Peep out with upward eye rude, insolent I 

Oh, vile and desperate hardihood ! But, hush J 
Nor let such matters move the bashful Muse to 
blush. 



4 The food biflhop'6 gallantry la herein displayed to 
tage: 

Nee robora d ura 

Ascendat permitte In cylvis innnba vtrgo; 
Ast operum pattens anus, et cut durlor annli 
Sft cutis (ingrain facilis jactura senecUel), 
Munere funpatur tall Ne fond quis alia 
Egressus eylvA satyrorum e gente procacl 
Suspiciat, tenervque pudor notet ora paella. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



231 



XXVIII. 

The maiden's ministry it is to keep 
Incessant vigil o'er the silkworm fold, 

Supply fresh fodder to the nibbling sheep, 
Cleanse and remove the remnants of the old, 
Guard against influence of damp or cold, 

And ever and anon collect them all 

In close divan : and ere their food is doled, 

Wash out with wine each stable and each stall, 
Lest foul disease the flock through feculence be- 
fall. 

XXIX. 

Changes will oft come o'er their outward form, 
And each transition needs thy anxious cares : 
Four times they cast their skin. The spinner- 
worm 

Four soft successive suits of velvet wears ; 
Nature each pliant envelope prepares. 
But how can they, in previous clothing pent, 
Get riddance of that shaggy robe of theirs ? 
They keep a three-days' fast. When by that 

Lent 

GrowE lean, they doff with ease their old accou- 
trement. 

XXX. 

Nor are the last important days at hand 

The liquid gold within its living mine 
Brightens. Nor nourishment they now de- 
mand, 

Nor care for life ; impatient to resign 
The wealth with which diaphanous they 

shine ! 
Eager they look around imploring look, 

For branch or bush, their tissue to entwine ; 
Some rudimental threads they seek to hook, 
And dearly love to find some hospitable nook. 



Anticipate their wishes, gentle maid ! 

Hie to their help ; the fleeting moment catch. 
Quick be the shelves with wicker-work o'er- 

laid: 
Let osier, broom, and furze, their workshop 

thatch, 

With fond solicitude and blithe dispatch. 
So may they quickly, mid the thicket dense, 
Find out a spot their purposes to match ; 
So may they soon their industry commence, 
And of the round cocoon plan the circumference 



Their hour is come. See how tlie yellow rluod 
Swells in yon creeping cylinder ! how tfeina 

Exuberant the tide of amber blood 1 

How the recondite gold transparent glf am*, 
And how pellucid the bright fluid seems! 

Proud of such pregnancy, and duly skilled 
In Daedalean craft, each insect deems 

The glorious purposes of life fulfilled, 
If into shining silk his substance be distilled 1 

XXXIII. 

Say, hast thou ever marked the clustering grape 
Swollen to maturity with ripe proddce, 

When the imprisoned pulp pants to escape, 
And longs to joy " emancipated" juice 
In the full freedom of the bowl profuse ? 

So doth the silk that swells their skinny coat 
Loathe its confinement, panting to get louse : 

Such longing for relief their looks denote 
Soon in their web they'll find a " bane and anti- 
dote." 

xxxiv 
See I round and round, in many a mirthful 

maze, 

The wily workman weaves his golden gauze ; 
And while his throat the twisted thread pur- 
veys, 

New lines with labyrinthine labor draws, 
Plying his pair of operative jaws. 
From morn to noon, from noon to silent eve, 

He toileth without interval or pause, ' 
His monumental trophy to achieve, 
And his sepulchral sheet of silk resplendent 
weave. 

XTXV. 

Approach, and view thy artisans at work ; 

At thy wee spinners take a parting glance; 
For soon each puny laborer will lurk 

Under his silken canopy's expanse 

Tasteful alcove ! boudoir of elegance ! 
There will the weary worm in peace repose, 

And languid lethargy his limbs entrance ; 
There his career of usefulness will close ; 
Who would not live the life and die the death of 
those ! ' 



1 Query, without pawst P. Devil. 

Mllle legnnt releguntque vias, atque orblbm orbM 
Agglomerknt, donee coeco e carcere condant 
Bponto sal. Tnt est edondi gloria ail I 



232 



POEMS OF FRAN'CIS MAIIOXY. 



Mostly the} 1 spin tlit-ir solitary shroud 

Single, apart, like ancient anchoret ; 
Yet oft a loving pair will, 1 if allowed, 

In the same sepulchre of silk well met, 

Nestle like ROMEO and JULIET. 
From such communing be they not debarred, 

Mindful of her who hallowed Paraclet; 

Even in their silken cenotaph 'twere hard 

To part a HELOISE from her loved ABELARD. 

XXXVII. 

The task is done, the work is now complete ; 

A stilly silence reigns throughout the room! 
Sleep on, blest beings! be your slumbers sweet, 

And calmly rest within your golden tomb 

Rest, till restored to renovated bloom. 
Bursting the trammels of that dark sojourn, 

Forth ye shall issue, and rejoiced, resume, 
A glorified appearance, and return 
To life a winged thing from monumental urn. 

XXXVIII. 

Fain would I pause, and of my tuneful text 
Reserve the remnant for a fitter time : 

Another song remains. The summit next 
Of double-peaked Parnassus when I climb, 
Graut me, ye gods 1 the radiant wings of 
rhyme ! 

Thus may I bear me up th' adventurous road 
That winds aloft an argument sublime! 

But of didactic poems 'tis the mode, 
No canto should conclude without an episode. 

XXXIX. 

VENUS it was who first invented SILK 
LINEN had long, by CERES patronized, 

Supplied Olympus : ladies of that ilk 

No better sort of clothing had devised 
Linen alone their garde de robe comprised. 

Hence at her cambric loom the "suitors" found 
PENELOPE, whom hath immortalized 

The blind man eloquent : nor less renowned 
Were "Troy's proud dames," whose robes of lin- 
en ' swept the ground." 

XL. 

Thus the first female fashion was for flax ; 
A linen tunic was the garb that graced 

1 Quln et nonnullee partbus communlft curia 
Auociant opera, et nebula clanduntur eadem. 



Exclusively the primitive "Almack's." 
Simplicity's costume ! too soon effaced 
By vain inventions of more modern taste. 
Then was the reign of modesty and sense. 
Fair ones were not, I ween, more prude and 

chaste, 

Girt in hoop-petticoats' circumference 
Or stays Honi soi the rogue qui mal y pense. 

XLl. 

WOOL, by MINERVA manufactured, met 

With blithe encouragement and brisk de- 
mand ; 
Her loom by constant buyers was beset, 

" Orders from foreign houses" kept her hand 
Busy supplying many a distant land. 
She was of woollen stuffs the sole provider, 

Till some were introduced by contraband : 
A female called ARACHNK thus defied her, 
But soon gave up the trade, being turned into 
spider. 

XLII. 

Thus a complete monopoly in wool, 
"Almost amounting to a prohibition," 

Enabled her to satisfy in full 

The darling object of her life's ambition, 
And gratify her spiteful disposition. 

VENUS' she had determined should not be 
Suffered to purchase stuffs on no condition 

While every naked Naiad nymph was tree 
To buy her serge, moreen, and woollen drapperie; 

XLIII. 

Albeit " when unadorned adorned the most,* 

The goddess could not brook to be outwitted 
How could she bear her rival's bitter boast, 

If to this taunt she quietly submitted ! 

OLYMPUS (robeless as she was) she quilted,. 
Fully determined to bring back as fine a 

Dress as was ever woven, spun, or knitted ; 
Europe she searched, consulted the CZARINA, 
And, taking good advice, crossed o'er "the wall 1 " 
to CHINA. 

XLIV. 

Long before Europeans, the Chinese 

Possessed the compass, silkworms, and gun- 
powder, 

1 Tantiim mulft Venus mcerebat munerts oxpen 
Egregrfftm ob fonnam textrici invisa Mincrv. 






POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



233 



And types, and tea, and other rarities. 

China (with gifts since Nature hath en- 
dowed her) 
Is proud ; what land hath reason to be 

prouder ? 
Her let the dull " Barbarian Eye" respect, 

And be her privileges all allowed her ; 
She is the WIDOW (please to recollect) 
Of ONE the Deluge drowned, PRIMORDIAL INTBL- 

n! 



LECT ! 



XLV. 



The good inhabitants of PEKIN, when 

They saw the dame in downright dishabille, 

Were shocked. Such sight was far beyond 

the ken 

Of their CONFUCIAN notions. Full of zeal 
To guard the morals of the commonweal, 

They straight deputed STLK, a mandarin, 
Humbly before the visitant to kneel 

With downcast eye, and oft'er Beauty's queen 
A rich resplendent ro-be of gorgeous bombazine. 

XLVI. 

Venus received the vesture nothing loath, 

And much its gloss, its softness much ad- 
mired, 
And piaised that specimen of foreign growth, 

So splendid, and so cheaply too acquired ! 

Quick in the robe her graceful limbs attired, 
She seeks a mirror there delighted dallies ; 

So rich a dress was all could be desired. 
How she rejoiced to disappoint the malice 
Of her unfeeling foe, the vile, vindictive PALLAS !' 

XLVII. 
But while she praised the gift and thanked the 

giver 

Of spinner-worms she sued for a supply. 
Forthwith the good Chinese filled Cupid's 

quiver 
With the cocoons in which each worm doth 

lie 

Snug, until changed into a butterfly. 
The light cocoons wild Cupid showered o'er 

Greece, 

And o'er the isles, and over Italy, 
Into the lap of industry and peace; 
And the glad nations hailed the long-sought 
"Golden Fleece." 1 

1 Kettulit insignes tunicas, nihil indiga lane. 

Grattam opus Ansoniis dam volvunt fil pnellli. 



THE SHANDON BELLS. 1 



JFunera 

Solcmitin clango. 

Inncrip. on an till 6*U. 

WITH deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon bells, 
Whose sounds so wild would, 
In the days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder 
Where'er I wander, 
And thus grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, 
With thy bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The 'pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chiming 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 

Cathedral shrine, 
While at a glib rate 
Brass tongues would vibrate 
But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine ; 
For memory dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of the belfry knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the bells of Shandon 
Sound far more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tolling 
Old " Adrian's Mole " in, 
Their thunder rolling 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 
But thy sounds were sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 

1 The spire of Sbandon, built on the ruins of old Shandon Castle 
(for which see the plates in ' Pacata Ilybernia"), Is a prominent 
object, from whatever Bide the traveller approaches our beautirul 
city. In a vault at iti foot sleep some generationf of the writer'* 
kith and kin. 



234 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Flings o'er the Tiber, 
Pealing solemnly ; 

Oh ! the bells of Shandon 

Sound tar more grand on 

The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow, 
While on tower and kiosk ol 
In Saint Sophia 

The Turkman gets, 
And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 
Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there is an anthem 

More dear to me, 
'Tis the bells of Shandon 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



THE RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA. 

A HUMBLE BALLAD. 

"Art net two fparrova told far a farthing t yet not one of 
Hum shall fall to the ground without your Father." 81. MAT- 
TIIKW, x. 29. 

"Galloa ab Aquitanis Garumna flumen. JULIUS CJWAK. 
"Samurai In stones, and goixl in every thing " SIIAKHPUM. 
" Genius, left to shiver 
Ou the bank, 'tis said, 
D4ed of that cold river." Toil Moou. 



Hirer trip 
from Tou- 
louse to 
Bordeaux. 
Thermome- 
ter at -0. 
Snow 1 foot 
and a half 
deep. Use 
l wooden 
thorn. 



OH, 'twas bitter cold 
As our steamboat rolled 
Down the pathway old 

Of the deep Garonne,- 
And the peasant lank, 
While his sabot sank 
In the snow-clad bank, 

Saw it roll on, on. 



co bis cot- 
age, and 
drinketb a 
iaggonne. 



To his toil de chaume ; 
And for those who roam 

On the broad bleak flood 
Cared he ? Not a thought ; 
For his beldame brought 
His wine-flask fraught 

With the grape's red blood. 



He warmeth And the wood-block blaze 

his cold ... 

bius at a r ed his vacant gaze 

wooden fire. \ j .1 

Good b'7 to As we trod the maze 
hlm - Of the river down. 

Soon we left behind 
On the frozen wind 
All farther mind 

Of that vacant clown. 



Te Father 
meetoth a 
stray ac- 
quaintance 

in a Bumll 
bird. 



But there came anon, 
As we journeyed on 
Down the deep Garonne, 

An acquaintancy, 
Which we deemed, I count) 
Of more high amount, 
For it oped the fount 

Of sweet sympathy. 



ot ye Twas a stranger dressed 

famous alba- . . 

troasoftuat In a downy vest, 
riner'oidc"*" 'Twas a wee Red-breast 



robin. But a wanderer meek, 

Who fain would seek 
O'er the bosom bleak 
Of that flood to cross. 

Ye parr..w And we watched him oft 

crossing . , , . , 

river inaketh As he Soared aloft 
hys half-way r\ \_< . * 

house of the On his pinions soft, 

flrMh 'i > - Poor wee weak thing, 

And we soon could mark 
That he sought our bark, 
As a resting ark 

For his weary wing. 



Delusive 
hope. Ye 
fire-ship 
runneth 10 
knots an 
hour: 'tis 
no go for ye 
sparrow. 



Ye byrde Is 
led a wildc 
goose chuoe 
adown ye 

river. 



But the bark, fire-fed. 
On her pathway sped, 
And shot far ahead 

Of the tiny bird, 
And quicker in the van 
Her swift wheels ran, 
As the quickening fan 

Of his winglets stirred. 

Vain, vain pursuit! 
Toil without fruit! 
For his forked foot 

Shall not anchor there, 
Thsugh the boat meanwhile 
Down the stream beguile 
For a bootless mile 

The poor child of air ! 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 



235 



Symptom* And 'twas plain at last 

of fatigue. , . js f j. 

Tismeian- lie was flagging last, 
betweeu f " U That his hour had past 
8 tol. j n that e ff or t va i n ; 

Far from either bank, 
Sans a saving plank, 
Slow, slow he sank, 
Nor uprose again. 



Mart off. 
blrde. 



And the cheerless wav 
Just one ripple gave 
As it oped him a grave 

In its bosom cold, 
And he sank alone, 
With a feeble moan, 
In that deep Garonne, 

And then all was told. 



Te old man But OUT pilot gray 

y*h*lar. T - T . ' * 

wcepeth for Wiped a tear away 

* Boune lost T *u i i T>- 

in ye bay f In the broad Biscaye 



*"* 



That sight brought back 
On its furrowed track 
The remembered wreck 
Of long-perished joy 

iadye;'eke In soft Beauty's lid 

ollohniMur . , . , ... 

Stole form unbid 

For that red-breast bird ; 
And the feeling crept, 
For a Warrior wept ; 
And the silence kept 

Found no fitting word. 



But 7 mused alone ' 

^ r * tnou ght f one 

Whom I well had known 

,. , 

In my earlier days, 
Of a gentle mind, 
Of a soul refined, 
Of deserts designed 

For the Palm of Praise. 



nenty* 

bird*. 



Ye 8tr*ai ^nd well would it seem 

of Lyfc. A. 

young* iran That o'er Life's dark stream, 

f byre ro- 

oiM. Easy task for him 

In his flight of Fame, 
Was the Skyward Path 
O'er the billow's wrath, 
That for Genius hath 
Ever been the same. 



Hys earhe And I saw him soar 

flyght across . 

ye btreame. From the morning shore, 
While his fresh wings bore 

Him athwart the tide, 
Soon with powers unspent 
As he forward went, 
His wings he had bent 

On the sought-for side 

A new* ob- But while thus he flew, 

|ect calleth . . 

hi *y* from Lo ! a vision new 

y main* ,, . . . . 

ohauno*. Caught his wayward view 
With a semblance fair, 
And that new-found wooer 
Could, alas ! allure 
From his pathway sure 
The bright child of air. 



instaMHU* For he turned aside, 

or purpose a . 

fataii eyyii And adown the tide 






This is y* 

Fathe/ 
Proof* 

bumble 



For a brief hour plied 

His yet unspent force. 
And to gain that goal 
Gave the powers of soul 
Which, unwasted, whole, 
Had achieved his course. 

A bright Spirit, young, 
Unwept, unsung, 
Sank thus among 

The drifts of the stream ; 
Not a record left, 
Of renown bereft, 
By thy cruel theft, 

DELUSIVE DREAM ! 



L'ENVOT TO W. H. AINSWORTH, ESQ. 

WHTLOHK, AUTHOR 07 THB ADMIRABLE "OKIOHTOB,* BT/BSXQXrl 
OHBONICLEB OF "JACK 8HKPPABD," 



which he 
wai'ight 7 in 



Thus sadly I thought 
As that bird unsought 
The remembrance brought 

Of thy bright day; 
And I penned full soon 
This Dirge, while the moon 
On the broad Garonne 

Shed a wintry ray. 



236 



POEMS OF FRANCIS Mn 



THE LEGEND OF ARETHUSA. 
To THE RIGHT HONORABLE ARETHUSA M R Q N. 

A SHEI-HERUESS of Arcadie, 

In die days higlit olden, 
Fed her white Hock close to the sea ; 

'Twas the age called golden. 

That age of gold ! yet naught availed 

To save from rudeness, 
To keep unsullied unassailed 

Such gentle goodness. 

The calm composure of a life 

Till then uncheckered, 
What rude attempt befell f 'tis rife 

lu Ovid's record. 

Poor shrinking maid despairing, left 

Without reliance ; 
Of brother's, father's aid bereft, 

She called on Dian's. 

"Queen of the spotless! quick, decree 

The boon I ask you ! 
To die ere I dishonored be ! 

SpeeJ to my rescue." 

Sudden beneath her footsteps oped 

The daisied meadow ; 
The passionate arms that wildly groped, 

Grasped but a shadow. 

Forth from the soil where sank absorbed 

That crystal virgin, 
Gushed a bright brook pure, undisturbed 

With pebbly margin. 

And onward to the sea-shore sped, 

Its course fulfilling ; 
Till the JSgean's briny bed 

Took the bright rill in. 

When lo ! was wrought for aye a theme 

Of special wonder ; 
Fresh and untainted ran that stream 

The salt seas under. 

Proof against every wave's attempt 

To interfuse it; 
From briny mixture still exempt, 

It flowed pellucid. 



And thus it kept for many a mile 

Its pathway single; 
Current, iu which nor gall nor guile 

Could ever mingle. 

And all day long with onward march 

The streamlet glided ; 
And when night came, Diana's torch 

The wanderer guided ; 

Till unto thee, sweet Sicily, 

From doubt and danger, 
From land and ocean's terrors free, 

She led the stranger; 

And there gushed forth, the pride and vaunt 

Of Syracusa, 
The bright, time-honored, glorious fount 

Of Arethusa. 

ladye, such be thy career, 

Such be thy guidance ; 
From every earthly toe and fear 

Such be thy riddance ! 

Safe from the tainted evil tongue 

Of foes insidious ; 
Brineless the bitter waves among 

Of " friends" perfidious. 

Such be thy life live on, live on ! 

Nor couldst thou choose a 
Name more appropriate than thine own, 

Fair Arethusa ! 



THE LADYE OF LEE. 

THERE'S a being bright, whose beams 
Light my days and gild my dreams, 
Till my life all sunshine seems 'tis the ladye? 
of Leo. 

Oh 1 the joy that Beauty brings, 
While her merry laughter rings, 
And her voice of silver sings how she loves but 
me ! 

There's a grace in every limb, 
There's a charm in every whim, 
And the diamond cannot dim the dazzling of 
her e'e. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



237 



there's a light araid 
the lustre of her lid, 
That from the crowd is hid and ouly I can see. 

Tis the glance by which is shown 

That she loves but me aloue ; 

That she is all mine own this ladye of Lee. 

Then say, can it be wrong, 

If the burden of my sung 

Be, how loudly I'll belong to this ladye of Lee ? 



LIFE, A BUBBLE. 
A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW THEREOF. 

DOWN comes rain drop, bubble follows; 

On the house-top one by one 
Flock the synagogue of swallows, 

Met to vote that autumn's gone. 

There are hundreds of them sitting, 

Met to vote in unison ; 
They resolve on general flitting. 

" I'm for Athens off," says one. 

* Every year my place is filled in 
Plinth of pillared Parthenon, 

Where a ball has struck the building, 
Shot from Turk's besieging gun." 

u As for me, I've got my chamber 

O'er a Smyrna coffee-shop, 
'Where his beadroll, made of amber, 

Hadji counts, and sips a drop." 

" I prefer Palmyra's scantlings, 
Architraves of lone Banlbec, 

Perched on which I feed ray bantlings 
As they ope their bonnie beak." 

While the last, to tell her plan, says, 

" On the second cataract 
I've a statue of old Ramses, 

And his neck is nicely cracked." 






Blunter) Songs. 



I. 
JACK BELLEW'S SONG 

Aw " Oh, wetpfor the hour r 

OH! the muse shed a tear 
When the cruel auctioneer, 
With a hammer in his hand, to sweet Blarney 

came ! 

Lady Jeffery's ghost 
Left the Stygian coast, 

And shrieked the live-long night for her grand- 
son's shame. 

The Vandal's hammer fell, 

And we know full well 
Who bought the castle furniture and fixtures, Ol 

And took off in a cart 

('Twas enough to break one's heart !) 
All the statues made of lead, and the pictures, 
O! 

You're the man I mean, hight 
Sir Thomas Deane, knight, 

Whom the people have no reason to thank at all 
But for you those things so old 
Sure would never have been sold, 

Nor the fox be looking out from the banqutt-hall. 

Oh, ye pulled at such a rate 
A.t every wainscoting and grate, 

Determined the old house to sack and garble, 

01 

That you didn't leave a splinter, 
To keep out the could winter, 

Except a limestone chimney-piece of marble, ! 

And there the place was left 

Where bold King Charles the Twelfth 

Hung, before his portrait -went upon a journey, 0! 
Och 1 the family's itch 
For going to law was sitch, 

That they bound him long before to an attorney, 
Ol 

But still the magic stone 
(Blessings on it!) is not flown, 

To which a debt of gratitude Pat Lardter owes : 
Kiss that block, if you're a dunce, 
And you'll emulate at once 

The genius who to fame by dint of blarney ros. 



238 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHON\. 



II. 
FRIAR O'MEARA'S SONG. 

CANTILENA OMEARIOA. 

WHY then, sure it was made by a learned owl, 

The " rule " by which I beg, 
Forbidding to eat of the tender fowl 
That hangs on yonder peg. 
But, rot it! no matter : 
For here on a platter 
Sweet Margaret brings 
A food fit for kings; 
And a meat 
Clean and neat 
That's an egg ! 

Sweet maid, 

She brings me an egg newly laid 1 
And to fast I need ne'er be afraid, 

For 'tis Peg 
That can find me an egg. 

Three different ways there are of eating them ; 

First boiled, then fried with salt, 
^"t there's a particular way of treating them, 
Where many a cook's at fault : 
For with parsley and flour 
Tis in Margaret's power 
To make up a dish, 
Neither meat, fowl, nor fish ; 
Bnt in Paris they call 't 
A neat 
Omelette. 

Sweet girl 1 
In truth, as in Latin, her name is a pearl, 

When she gets 
Me a platter of nice omelettes. 

Och 1 'tis all in my eye, and a joke, 
"o call fasting a sorrowful yoke ; 
Sure, of Dublin-bay herrings a keg, 

And an egg, 

Is enough for all sensible folk ! 
Success to the fragrant turf-smoke, 
That curls round the pan on the fire ; 
w While the sweet yellow yolk 
From the egg-sh-^ls is broke 
In that pan, 
Who can, 

If he have but the heart of a man, 
Not feel the soft flame of desire, 
When it burns to a clinker the heart of a friar f 



III. 
TERRY CALLAGHAN'S SONG; 

BBHta A TOLL AXD TEUE ACCOUNT Or TUB STORMINO Or 
KBT CASTLE, BT THE UNITED FORGES OF CROMWELL, 
AUD rAIKFAZ, IN 1623. 

AIR" tm akin to the Caliagfuau." 

O BLARNEY Castle, my darlint! 

Sure you're nothing at all but a stone 
Wrapped in ivy a nest for all varmint, 

Since the ould Lord Clancarty is gone. 
Och 1 'tis you that was once strong and aincient, 

And ye kep all the Sassenachs down, 
While fighting them battles that aint yet 

Forgotten by martial renown. 

Blarney Castle, etc. 

Bad luck to that robber, ould Cromraill ! 

That plundered our beautiful fort ; 
We'll never forgive him, though some will- - 

Saxons ! such as George Knapp and his jrC 
But they tell us the day '11 come, when Dai lei 

Will purge the whole country, and drm 
All the Sassenachs into the channel, 

Nor leave a Cromwellian alive. 

Blarney Castle, etc. 

Curse the day clumsy Noll's ugly corput, 

Clad in copper, was seen on our plain ; 
When he rowled over here like a porpoise 

In two or three hookers from Spain 1 
And bekase that he was a freemason 

Ee mounted a battering-ram, 
And into her mouth, full of treason, 

Twenty pound of gunpowder he'd cram. 
O Blarney Castle, etc. 

So when the brave boys of Clancarty 

Looked over their battlement-wall, 
They saw wicked Oliver's party 

All a feeding on powder and ball ; 
And that giniral that married his daughter 

Wid a heap of grape-shot in his jaw 
That's bould Iretou, so famous for slaughter - 

And he was his brother-in-law. 

Blarney Castle, etc. 

They fired off their bullets like thunder, 
That whizzed through the air like a snake ; 

And they made the ould castle (no wonder I) 
With all its foundations to shake. 

While the Irish had nothing to shoot off 
But their bows and their arras, the sowli 1 






POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Waypons fit for the wars of old Plutarch, 
And perhaps mighty good for wild fowls. 
O Blarney Castle, etc. 

Och ! 'twaa Crommill then gave the dark token - 
For in the black art he was deep; 
nd though the eyes of the Irish stood open, 
They found themselves all fast asleep! 

With his jack-boots he stepped on the water, 
And he walked clane right over the lake ; 

While his sodgers they all followed after, 
As dry as a duck or a drake. 

O Blarney Castle, etc. 

Then the gates he burnt down to a cinder, 

And the roof he demolished likewise ; 
Oh! the rafters they flamed out like tinder, 

And the buildin'_/?arai up to the skies. 
And he gave the estate to the Jeffers, 

With the dairy, the cowa, and the hay ; 
And they lived there in clover like heifers, 

As their ancestors do to this day. 

Blarney Castle, etc. 



THE LAMENT OF STELLA. 

BURLESQUE ON THE LAMENT OV DANAE, BT 
BIMONIDES. 

WHILE round the churn, 'mid sleet and rain, 

It blew a pei feet hurricane, 

Wrapped in slight garment to protect her, 

Methought I saw my mother's spectre, 

Who took her infant to her breast 

Ms, "-h small tenant of that chest 

Whne thus sne lulled her babe : " How cruel 

Have been the Fates to thee, my jewel' 

But, earing naught for foe or scoffer, 

Thou sleepest in this milky coffer, 

Coopered with brass hoops weather-tight, 

Impervious to the dim moonlight. 

The shower cannot get in to soak 

Thy hair or little purple cloak ; 

Heedless of gloom, in dark sojourn. 

Thy face illuminates the churn! 

Small is thine ear, wee babe, for hearing, 

But grant my prayer, ye gods of Erin 1 

And may folks find that this young fellow 

Does credit to his mother Stella." 



EPITAPH ON FATHER PROUT. 

SWBET upland ! where, like hermit old, in peace 
sojourned 

This priest devout ; 

Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep 
inurned 

The bones of Prout 1 

Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering 
column 

His place of rest, 

Whose soul, above earth's homage, meek yet 
solemn, 

Sits 'mid the blessed. 

Much was he prized, much loved ; his stern re- 
buke 

O'erawed sheep-stealers ; 

And rogues feared more the good man's single, 
look 

Than forty Peelers. 
He's gone ; and discord soon I ween will visit 

The land with quarrels; 
And the foul demon vex with stills illicit 

The village morals. 
No fatal chance could happen more to cross 

The public wishes ; 
And all the neighborhood deplore his loss, 

Except the fishes ; 
For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring 

Preferred to gammon. 

Grim Death has broke his angling-rod ; his ber- 
ring 

Delights the salmon. 
No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout, 

For fasting pittance, 

Arts which Saint Peter loved, whose gate to 
Prout 

Gave prompt admittance. 
Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep 

His sainted dust ; 
The bad man's death it well becomes tc weep, 

Not so the just. 



THE ATTRACTIONS OF A FASHIONABLE 
IRISH WATERING-PLACE. 

THE town of Passage 
Is both large and spacious, 
And situated 
Upon the say. 



210 



POEMS OF FRAXCIS MAUONY. 



'Tis nate and dacent, 
And quite adjacent 
To come from Cork 

On a summer's day; 
There you may slip in 
To take a dipping, 
Foment the shipping 

That at anchor ride; 
Or in a wherry 
Cross o'er the ferry 
To Carrigaloe, 

On the other side. 

Mud cabins swarm in 
This place so charming, 
With sailor garments 

Hung out to dry ; 
And each abode is 
Snug and commodious, 
With pigs melodious 

In their straw-built sty. 
"Tis there the turf is, 
And lots of murphies, 
Dead sprats and herrings, 

And oyster shells ; 
Nor any lack, O ! 
Of good tobacco 
Though what is smuggled 

By far excels. 

There are ships from Cadiz, 
And from Barbadoes, 
But the leading trade is 

In whisky-punch ; 
And you may <jo in 
Where one Molly Bowen 
Keeps a nate hotel 

For a quiet lunch. 
But land or deck on, 
You may safely reckon, 
Whatsoever country 

You come hither from, 
On an invitation 
To a jollification, 
With a parish priest 

That's called " Father Tom." > 

Of ships there's one fixt 
For lodging convicts, 

The ET. Thomas England, P. p., known to the Htorarr W I.M 

K'* !!fl"^ ' be C0 ' ebrated M "' Artlmr ' LeK T' ch'Pl'l a 
lob which Ourran, Yelverton, Earls Molra, CharlemonL to t 
tbllsh.d In 1780, nnder th. designation of th. M ' 
c r 6w. O. T 



A floating "stone Jug" 

Of amazing bulk ; 
The hake an<l salmon, 
Playing at backgammon, 
Swim for divarsion 

All round this "hulk;" 
There "Saxon" jailers 
Keep brave repailers, 
Who soon with sailors 

Must anchor weigh 
From th' em'rald island, 
Ne'er to see dry land, 
Until they spy land 

In sweet Bot'ny Bay. 



FROM CRESSET'S FAREWELL TO THE 

JESUITS. 

To the sages I leave here's a heartfelt farewell! 
'Twas a blessing within their loved cloisters to 

dwell, 
And my iearest affections hall jling rounr 

them still : 

Full gladly I mixed their blessed circles among. 
And oh ! heed not the whisper of Envy's foul 

tongue ; 
If you list but to her, you must know them 

but ill. 



DON IGNACIO LOYOLA'S VIGIL 

IN THB CHAPEL OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAl 

WHBN at thy shrine, most holy maid ! 
The Spaniard hung his votive blade, 
And bared his helmed brow 
Not that he feared war's visage grim, 
Or that the bnttle-field for him 
Had aught to daunt, I trow ; 

" Glory I" he cried, ' with thee I've done I 

Fame ! thy bright theatres I shun, 

To tread fresh pathways now : 

To track thy footsteps, Saviour God 1 

With throbbing heart, with feet unshod : 

Hear and record my vow. 






POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



241 



Yes, THOU shall reign ! Chained to thy throne, 
The mind of man thy sway shall own, 

And to its conqueror bow. 
Genius his lyre to Thee shall lift, 
And intellect its choicest gift 

Proudly on Thee bestow." 

Straight on the marble floor he knelt, 
And in his breast exulting felt 

A vivid furnace glow ; 
Forth to his task the giant sped, 
Earth shook abroad beneath his tread, 

And idols were laid low. 

India repaired half Europe's loss; 
O'er a new hemisphere the Cross 

Shone in the azure sky ; 
And, from the isles of far Japan 
To the brojid Audes, won o'er man 

A bloodless victory ! 



THE SONG OF THE COSSACK. 

COME, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and 

bear thy rider on ! 
The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of 

the dweller on the Don. 
Pillage and Death have spread their wings! 

'tis the hour to hie thee forth, 
And with thy hoofs an echo wake to the 

trumpets of the North ! 
Nor gems nor gold do men behold upon thy 

saddle-tree ; 
But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy 

master and for thee. 
Then fiercely neigli, my charger gray ! thy 

chest is proud and ample ; 
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, 

and the pride of her heroes trample 1 

Europe is weak she hath grown old her 

bulwarks are laid low ; 
She is loath to hear the blast of war she 

sarinketh from a foe ! 
Come, in our turn, let us sojourn in her goodly 

haunts of joy 
In the pillared porch to wave the torch, and 

her palaces destroy ! 
Proud as when first thou slakedst thy thirst in 

the flow of conquered Seine 



Aye shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy 

blood-red flanks again. 
Then fiercely neigh, my gallant gray ! thy 

chest is strong and ample ! 
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, 

and the pride of her heroes trample ! 

Kings are beleaguered on their thrones by 

their own vassal crew ; 
And in their den quake noblemen, and priesU 

are bearded too ; 
And loud they yelp for the Cossacks' help to 

keep their bondsmen down, 
And they think it meet, while they kiss our 

feet, to wear a tyrant's crown ! 
The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and 

the crosier and the cross 
Shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and 

aloft THAT SCEPTRE tOSS ! 

Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray ! th_ 

chest is broad and ample ; 
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, 
and the pride of her heroes trample ! 

In a night of storm I have seen a form ! and 

the figure was a GIANT, 
And his eye was bent on the Cossack's ten 1 , 

and his look was all defiant ; 
Kingly his crest and towards the West with 

his battle-axe he pointed ; 
And the " form " I saw was ATTILA ! of this 

earth the scourge anointed. 
From the Cossack's camp let the horsemau't 

tramp the coming crash announce ; 
Let the vulture whet his beak sharp set, on 

th carrion field to pounce ; 
And proudly neigh, my charger gray 1 Oh 1 

thy chest is broad and ample ; 
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, 

and the pride of her heroes trample! 

What boots old Europe's boasted fame, o 

which she builds reliance, 
When the North shall launch its avalanche on 

her works of art and science! 
Hath she not wept her cities swept by our 

hordes of trampling stallions ? 
And tower and arch crushed in the march of 

our barbarous battalions ? 
Can we not wield our fathers' shield ? the same 

war-hatchet handle t 
Do our blades want length, or the reapers' 

strength, for the harvest of the Vandal ? 



242 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray, for thy 

chest is strong and ample ; 
Aad thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of 
France, and the pride of her heroes tram- 
ple ! 



POPULAR RECOLLECTIONS OF BONA- 
PARTE. 

THEY'LL talk of HIM for years to come, 

In cottage chronicle aud tale ; 
When for aught else renown is dumb, 

His legend shall prevail ! 
Then in the hamlet's honored chair 

Shall sit some aged dame, 
Teaching to lowly clown and villager 

That narrative of fame. 
Tis true, they'll say, his gorgeous throne 

France bled to raise ; 
But he was all our own 1 
Mother ! say something in his praise 

Oh, speak of him always! 

" I saw him pass : his was a host : 

Countless beyond your young imaginings 
My children, he could boast 

A train of conquered kings I 
And when he came this road, 

'Twas on my bridal day. 
He wre, for near to him I stood, 

Cocked hat and surcoat gray. 
I blushed ; he said, ' Be of good cheer 1 

Courage, my dear!' 
That was his very word." 
Mother ! Oh, then this really occurred, 

And you his voice could hear ! 

" A year rolled on, when next at Paris I, 
Lone woman that I am, 

Saw him pass by, 

Girt with his peers, to kneel at Notre Dame. 
I knew by merry chime and signal gun, 
God granted him a son, 
And oh ! I wept for joy ! 
For why not weep when warrior-men did, 
Who gazed upon that sight so splendid, 

And blessed th' imperial boy? 
Never did noonday sun shine out so bright ! 

Oh, what a sight I" 
Mother ! for you that must hare been 
A glorious scene ! 



" But when all Europe's gathered strength 
Burst o'er the French frontier at length, 

'Twill scarcely be believed 
What wonders, single-handed, he achieved. 

Such general ne'er lived ! 
One evening on my threshold stood 

A guest 'TWAS HE ! Of warriors few 

He had a toil-worn retinue. 
He flung himself into this chair of wood, 

Muttering, meantime, with fearful air, 

l Quelle ffuerre! oh, guelle ffuerre !' " 
Mother! and did our emperor sit there, 
Upon that very chair ? 

" He said, ' Give me some food.' 
Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine, 
And made the kindling fireblooks shine,. 
To dry his cloak with wet bedewed. 
Soon by the bonny blaze he slept, 
Then waking chid me (for I wept) ; 
' Courage !' he cried, ' I'll strike for all 
Under the sacred wall 
Of France's noble capital !' 
Those were his words : I've i ensured up 
With pride that same wine-cup ; 
And for its weight in gold 
It never shall be sold !" 
Mother ! on that proud relic let us gaze. 
Oh, keep that cup always ! 

"But, through some fatal witchery, 

He, whom A POPE had crowned and blessed, 
Perished, my sons ! by foulest treachery : 

Cast on an isle far in the lonely West. 
Long time sad rumors were afloat 

The fatal tidings we would spurn, 
Still hoping from that isle remote 

Once more our hero would return. 
But when the dark announcement drew 

Tears from the virtuous and the brave 
When the sad whisper proved too true, 

A flood of grief I to his memory gat e. 

Peace to the glorious dead !" 
Mother ! may God his fullest blessing enea 
Upon your aged head ! 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



243 



ADDRESS TO THE VANGUARD OF THE 
FRENCH 

UNDER THE DUKE D'ALENJON, 1521. 

OLEMBNT MAKOT. 

SOLDIER ! at length their gathered strength our 

might is doomed to feel 
Spain and Brabant comilitant Bavaria and Cas- 
tile. 
Idiots, they think that France will shrink from a 

foe that rushes on, 
And terror damp the gallant camp of the bold 

Duke d'Alenjon ! 
But wail and woe betide the foe that waits for 

our assault! 
Back to his lair our pikes shall scare the wild 

boar of Hainault.' 
La Meuse shall flood her banks with blood, ere 

the sons of France resign 
Their glorious fields the land that yields the 

olive and the vine ! 

Then draw the blade ! be our ranks arrayed to 

the sound of the martial fife; 
In the foeman's ear let the trumpeter blow a blast 

of deadly strife ; 
And let each knight collect his might, as if 

thare hung this day 
The fate of France on his single lance in the hour 

of the coming fray : 
As melts the snow in summer's glow, so may our 

helmets' glare 
Consume their host; so folly'* boast vanish in 

empty air. 

Fools ! to believe the sword could give to the chil- 
dren of the Rhine 
Our Gallic fields the land that yields the olive 

and the vine ! 

Can Germans face our Norman race in the con- 
flict's awful shock 

Brave the war-cry of " BRITANNT !" the shout of 
" LANOUEDOC !" 

Dare they confront the battle's brunt the fell 
encounter try 

When dread Bayard leads on his guard of stout 
gendarmerie ? 

Strength be the test then breast to breast, ay, 
grapple man with man ; 

Strength in the ranks, strength on both flanks, 
and valor in the ran 



Let war efface each softer grace ; on stern Bel- 

lona's shrine 
We vow to shield the plains that yield the olive 

and the vine ! 

Methinks I see bright Victory, in robe of glory- 
dressed, 

Joyful appear on the French frontier to the chief- 
tain she loves best ; 

While grim Defeat, in contrast meet, scowls o'er 
the foeman's tent, 

She on our duke smiles down with look of blythe 
encouragement. 

E'en now, I ween, our foes have seen their hope* 
of conquest fail ; 

Glad to regain their homes again, and quaff their 
Saxon ale. 

So may it be while chivalry and loyal hearts com- 
bine 

To lift a brand for the bonny land of the oliv 
and the vine ! 



ODE ON THE SIGNAL DEFEAT OF THB 
SULTAN OSMAN, BY THE ARMY OP 
POLAND AND HER ALLIES, SEPTEM 
BER, 1621. 

riiOM THE LATIN OF CA8IMIR 8ARBIEWSKI. 

As slow the plough the oxen plied, 
Close by the Danube's rolling tide, 
With old Galeski for their guide 

The Dacian farmer 
His eye amid the furrows spied 

Men's bones and armor. 

The air was calm, the sun was low. 
Calm was the mighty river's flow, 
And silently, with footsteps slow, 

Labored the yoke ; 
When fervently, with patriot glow, 

The veteran spoke : 

" Halt ye, my oxen 1 Pause we her* 
Where valor's vestiges appear, 
And Islam's relics far and near 

Lurk in the soil ; 
While Poland on victorious spear 

Rest* from her toil. 



244 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Ay ? well she may triumphant rest, 
Adorn with glory's plume her crest, 
And wear of victory the vest, 

Elate and flushed : 
Oft was the Paynim's pride repressed 

HERE IT WAS CRUSHED ! 

Here the tremendous deed was done, 
Here the transcendant trophy won, 
Where fragments lie of sword and gun, 

And lance and shield, 
And Turkey's giant skeleton 

Cumbers the field 1 

Heavens ! I remember well that day, 
Of warrior men the proud display, 
Of brass and steel the dread array 

Van, flank, and rear ; 
How my young heart the charger's neigh 

Throbbed high to hear 1 

How gallantly our lancers stood, 
Of bristling spears an iron wood, 
Fraught with a desperate hardihood 

That naught could daunt, 
-And burning for the bloody feud, 
Fierce, grim, and gaunt ! 

Then rose the deadly din of fight ; 

Then shouting charged, with all his might, 

Of Wilna each Teutonic knight, 

And of St. John's, 
While flashing out from yonder height 

Thundered the bronze. 

Dire was the struggle in the van, 
'Fiercely we grappled man with man, 
Till soon the Paynim chiels began 

For breath to gasp ; 
When Warsaw folded Ispahan 

In deadly grasp. 

So might a tempest grasp a pine, 

Tall giant of the Apennine, 

Whose rankling roots deep undermine 

The mountain's base : 
Fitting antagonists to twine 

In stern embrace. 

Loud rung on helm, and coat of mail, 
' Of musketry the rattling hail; 
Of wounded men loud rose the wail 
In dismal rout : 



And now alternate would prevail 
The victor's shout. 

Long time amid the vapors dense 
The fire of battle raged intense, 
While VICTORY held in suspense 

The scales on high : 
But Poland in her FAITH'S defence 

Maun do or die ! 

Rash was the hope, and poor the chance, 
Of blunting that victorious lance ; 
Though Turkey from her broad expanse 

Brought all her sons, 
Swelling with tenfold arrogance, 

Hell's myrmidons! 

Stout was each Cossack heart and hand, 
Brave was our Lithuanian band, 
But Gallantry's own native land 

Sent forth the Poles ; 
And Valor's flame shone nobly fanned 

In patriot souls. 

Large be our allies' meed of fame ! 

Rude Russia to the rescue came, 

From land of frost, with brand of flame. 

A glorious horde : 
Huge havoc here these bones proclaim, 

Done by her sword. 

Pale and aghast the crescent fled, 
Joyful we clove each turbaned head, 
Heaping with holocausts of dead 

The foeman's camp : 
Loud echoed o'er their gory bed 

Our horsemen's tramp. 

A hundred trees one hatchet hews ; 
A hundred doves one hawk pursues ; 
One Polish gauntlet so can bruise 

Their miscreant clay : 
As well the caliph kens who rue 

That fatal day. 

What though, to meet the tug of war, 
Osman had gathered from afar 
Arab, and Sheik, and Hospodar, 

And Copt, and Guebre, 
Quick yielded Pagan scimitar 

To Christian sabre. 

Here could the Turkman turn and trace 
The slaughter-tracks, here slowly pace 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



245 



The field of downfall and disgrace, 
Where men and horse, 

Thick strewn, encumbered all the place 
With frequent corse. 

Well might his haughty soul repent 
That rash and guilty armament; 
Wuep for the blood of nations spent, 

His ruined host; 
His empty arrogance lament, 

And bitter boast. 

Sorrow, derision, scorn, and hate, 
Upon the proud one's footsteps wait; 
Both in the field and in the gate 

Accursed, abhorred ; 
And be his halls made desolate 

With fire and sword 1" 

Such was the tale Galeski told, 
Calm as the mighty Danube rolled ; 
And well I ween that farmer old, 

Who held a plough, 
Had fought that day a warrior bold 

With helmed brow. 

But now upon the glorious stream 
The sun flung out his parting beam, 
The soldier-swain unyoked his team, 

Yet still he chanted 
The live-long eve : and glory's dream 

His pillow haunted. 



ODE ON THE TAKING OF CALAIS, 

ADDRESSED TO HBN'KY II., KINO OF FRANCE, BT 
GEORGE BUCHANAN. 

HENRY ! let none commend to thee 
FATE, FORTUNE, DOOM, or DESTINY, 
Or STAR in heaveu's high canopy, 

With magic glow 
Shining on man's nativity, 

For weal or woe. 

Rather, king ! here recognize 
A PROVIDENCE all just, all wise, 
Of every earthly enterprise 

The hidden mover ; 
Aye casting calm complacent eyes 

Down on thy Louvre 



Prompt to assume the right's defence 
Mercy unto the meek dispense, 
Curb the rude jaws of insolence 

With bit and bridle, 
And scourge the chiol whose frankincense 

Burns for an idol. 

Who, his triumphant course amid, 
Who smote the monarch of Madrid, 
And bade Pavia's victor bid 

To power farewell ? 
Opce Europe's arbiter, now hid 

In hermit's cell. 

Thou, too, hast known misfortune's blast ; 

Tempests have bent thy stately mast, 

And nigh upon the breakers cast 
Thy gallant ship : 

But now the hurricane is passed- 
Hushed is the deep. 

For PHILIP, lord of ARAOON, 

Of haughty CHARLES the haughty son, 

The clouds still gather dark and dun, 

The sky still scowls ; 
And round his gorgeous galledn 

The tempest howls. 

Thou, when th' Almighty ruler dealt 
The blows thy kingdom lately felt, 
Thy brows unhelrned, unbound thy belt, 

Thy feet unshod, 
Humbly before the chastener knelt, 

And kissed the rod. 

Pardon and peace thy penance bought ; 
Joyful the seraph Mercy brought 
Tke olive-bough, with blessing fraught 

For thee and France ; 
GOD for thy captive kingdom wrought 

Deliverance. 

'Twas dark and drear ! 'twas win-ter's reign I 
Grim horror walked the lonesome plain ; 
The ice held bound with crystal chain 

Lake, flood, and rill ; 
And dismal piped the hurricane 

His music shrill. 

But when the gallant GUISK displayed 
The flag of FRANCE, and drew the blade. 
Straight the obsequious season bade 
Its rigor cease ; 



246 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



And, lowly crouching, homage paid 
The FLKUR DE LYS. 

Winter his violence withheld, 
His progeny of tempests quelled, 
His canopy of clouds dispelled, 

Unveiled the sun 
And blithesome days unparalleled 

Began to run. 

Twas then beleaguered Calais found, 
With swamps and marshes fenced around, 
With counterscarp, and moat, and mound, 

And yawning trench, 
Vainly her hundred bulwarks frowned 

To stay the French. 

Guise! child of glory and Lorraine, 
Ever thine house bath proved the bane 
Of France's foes ! aye from the chain 

Of slavery kept her, 
And in the teeth of haughty Spain 

Upheld her sceptre. 

Scarce will a future age believe 

The deeds cue year saw thee achieve 

Fame in her narrative should give 

Thee magic pinions 
To range, with free prerogative, 

All earth's dominions. 

What were the year's achievements? first, 
Yon Alps their barrier saw thee burst, 
To bruise a reptile's head, who durst, 

With viper sting, 
Assail (ingratitude accursed !) 

Rome's Pontiff-King. 

To rescue Rome, capture Plaisance, 
Make Naples yield the claims of France, 
While the mere shadow of thy lance 

O'erawed the Turk : 
Such was, within the year's expanse, 

Thy journey-work. 

But Calais yet remained unwon 

Calais, stronghold of Albion, 

Her zone begirt with blade and gun, 

In all the pomp 
And pride of war ; fierce Amazon 1 

Queen of a swamp ! 

But even she hath proven frail, 
Her walls and swamps of no avail ; 



What citadel may Guise not scale, 
Climb, storm, and seize ? 

What foe before thee may not quail, 
gallant Guise ! 

Thee let the men of England dread. 
Whom Edward erst victorious led, 
Right joyful now that ocean's bed 

Between them rolls 
And thee ! that thy triumphant tread 

Yon wave controls. 

Let ruthless MARY learn from hence 
That Perfidy's a foul offence ; 
That falsehood hath its recompense ; 

That treaties broken, 
The anger of Omnipotence 

At length have woken. 

May evil counsels prove the bane 
And curse of her unhallowed reign; 
Remorse, with its disastrous train, 

Infest her palace ; 
And may she of God's vengeance drain 

The brimming chalice! 



MICHEL ANGELO'S FAREWELL TO 
SCULPTURE. 

I FEEL that I am growing old 
My lamp of clay ! thy flame, behold 1 
'Gins to burn low : and I've unrolled 
My life's eventful volume 1 

The sea has borne my fragile bark 
Close to the shore now, rising dark, 
O'er the subsiding wave I mark 

This brief world's final column. 

Tis time, my soul, for pensive mood, 
For holy calm and solitude ; 
Then cease henceforward to delude 

Thyself with fleeting vanity. 

The pride of art, the sculptured thought, 
Vain idols that my hand ha-th wrought- 
To place my trust in such were naught 
But sheer insanity. 

What can the pencil's power achieve I 
What can the chisel's triumph give f 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



247 



A name perhaps on earth may live, 
Aud travel to posterity. 

But can proud Rome's Pantheon tell, 

If for the soul of Raffaelle 

His glorious obsequies could quell 

The JUDGMENT-SEAT'S severity! 

Yet why should Christ's believer fear, 
While gazing on yon image dear! 
Image adored, maugre the sneer 

Of miscreant blasphemer. 

Are not those arms for me outspread ! 
What mean those thorns upon thy head ! 
And shall I, wreathed with laurels, tread 
Far from thy paths, Redeemer ? 



THE SONG OF BRENNUS, 

OR THE INTRODUCTION OF THE GRAPE INTO FRANCE. 
TONS "7ft Night lefart Larry.' 

WHEN Brennus came back here from Rome, 

These words he is said to have spoken : 
" We have conquered, my boys ! and brought 

home 

A sprig of the vine for a token ! 
'Cheer, my hearties ! and welcome to Gaul 

This plant, which we won from the foeman ; 
Tis enough to repay us for all 

Our trouble in beating the Roman ; 

Bless the gods ! and bad luck to the 
geese ! 

Oh ! take care to treat well the fair guest, 

From the blasts of the north to protect her ; 
Of your hillocks, the sunniest and best 

Make them hers, for the sake of her nectar. 
She shall nurse your young Gauls with her juice ; 

Give life to ' the arts' in libations ; 
While your ships round the globe shall produce 
Her goblet of joy for all nations 

E'en the foeman shall taste of our cup. 

1 Hi body was laid out In state In the church of St Maria Ro- 
tontla (the Pantheon), whither nil Koine flocked to honor the illus- 
trious dead. His last and most glorious work, "The Transfigura- 
tion," was placed above bis bier; while Leo's pontifical hand 
trewed flowers and burnt inci'nse over the cold remains of depart- 
ed genius. Life o/ Bujfaelle. 



The exile who flies to our hearth 

She shall soothe, all his sorrows redressing ; 
For the vine is the parent of mirth, 

And to sit in its shade is a blessing." 
So the soil Brennus dug with his lance, 

'Mid the crowd of Gaul's warriors and 
And our forefathers grim, of gay France 

Got a glimpse through the vista of ages 

And it gladdened the hearts of the 
Gauls ! 



WINE DEBTOR TO WATER. 

Ait "Life let us cherith-" 

RAIN best doth nourish 

Earth's pride, the budding vine! 
Grapes best will flourish 

On which the dewdrops shine. 
Then why should water meet with scorn, 

Or why its claim to praise resign ? 
When from that bounteous source is born 

The vine! the vine! the vine! 

Rain best disposes 

Earth for each blossom and each bud ; 
True, we are told by Moses, 

Once it brought on " a flood :" 
But while that Hood did all immerse, 

All save old Noah's holy line, 
Pray read the chapter and the verse 

The vine is there! the vine! 

Wine by water-carriage 

Round the globe is best conveyed ; 
Then why disparage 

A path for old Bacchus made? 
When in our docks the cargo lands 

Which foreign merchants here consign, 
The wine's red empire wide expands 

The vine ! the vine ! the vine ! 

Rain makes the miller 

Work his glad wheel the livelong dav ' 
Rain brings the siller, 

And drives dull care away : 
For without rain he lacks the stream, 

And fain o'er watery cups must pine ; 



248 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



But when it rains, he courts, I deem, 
Th viue ! the vine ! the vine ! ' 

Though all good judges 

Water's worth now understand, 
Mark yon chiel who drudges 

With buckets in each hand; 
He toils with water through the town, 

Until he spies a certain "sign," 
Where entering, r.ll his labor done, 

He drains thy juice, vine ! 

But pure water singing 

Dries full soon the poet's tongue; 
So crown all by bringing 

A draught drawn from the bung 
Of yonder cask, that wine contains 

Of Loire's good vintage or the Rhine, 
Queen of whose teeming margin reigns 

The vine I the vine ! the vine ! 



POPULAR BALLAD ON THE BATTLE 
OF LEPANTO. 

LET us sing how the boast of the Saracen host 

In the gulf of Lepanto was scattered, 
When each knight of St. John's from his cannon 

of bronze 

Wifn grape-shot their argosies battered. 
Oh ! we taught the Turks then that of Europe 

the men 

Could defy every infidel menace 
And that still o'er the main float the galleys of 

Spain, 
And the red-lion standard of Venice! 

Quick we made the foe skulk, as we blazed at 

each hulk, 

While they left us a splinter to fire at; 
And the rest of them fled o'er the waters, blood 

red 

With the gore of the Ottoman pirate ; 
And our navy gave chase to the infidel race, 
Nor allowed them a moment to rally ; 

1 This Wea, containing an apparent parade*, has been frequent- 
\Y worked up in the quaint writing of the 'middle anes. There la 
aii old Jesuits' riddle, which I learnt among other wise saws at their 
colleges, from which it will appear that this MUler Is a regular 

Q. " Suave bibo vlnum qaoties tnthi suppetlt nnd; 
Undaquo si desit, quid bibo?" 

*. "TrisUsaquaml" 



And we forced them at length to acknowledge 

our strength 
In the trench, in the field, in the galley ! 

Then our men gave a shout, and the ocean, 
throughoat 

Heard of Christendom's triumph with rapture. 
Galeottes eighty-nine of the enemy's line 

To our swift-sailing ships fell a capture : 
And I firmly maintain that the number of slain 

To at least sixty thousand amounted ; 
To be sure 'twas sad work if the life of a Turk 

For a moment were worth being counted. 

We may well feel elate; though I'm orry to 

state, 

That albeit by the myriad we've slain 'tm, 
Still, the sons of the Cross have to weep for the 

loss 

Of six thousand who fell by the Paynim 
Full atonement was due for each man that they 

slew, 

And a hecatomb paid for each hero : 
But could all that we'd kill give a son to Castile, 
Or to Malta a brave cavalhero? 

St. Mark for the slain intercedes not in vain 

There's a mass at each altar in Venice; 
And the saints we implore for the banner they 
bore 

Are Our Lady, St. George, and St. Denis. 
For the brave while we grieve, in our heart* 
they shall live, 

In our mouths shall their praise be incessant; 
Anil again and again we will boast of the men 

Who have humbled the pride of the Crescent 



THE THREE-COLORED FLAtr. 

(A PROSECUTED SOKG.) 

COMRADES, around this humble board, 

Here's to our banner's by-gone splendor. 
There may be treason in that word 
All Europe may the proof afford 
All France be the offender; 
But drink the toast 
That gladdens most, 
Fires the young heart and cheers the old 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



" May France once more 
Her tri-color 
Blessed with new life behold ! 

List to my secret. That old flag 

Under my bed of straw is hidden, 
Sacred to glory ! War-worn rag ! 
Thee no informer thence shall drag, 
Nor dastard spy say 'tis forbidden. 
France, I can vouch, 
Will, from its couch, 
The dormant symbol yet unfold, 
And wave once more 
Her tri-color 
Through Europe, uncontrolled! 

For every drop of blood we spent, 

Did not that flag give value plenty f 
Were not our children as they went, 
Jocund, to join the warrior's tent, 
Soldiers at ten, heroes at twenty f 
FRANCE ! who were then 
Your noblemen ? 

Not they of parchment-must and mould 1 
But they who bore 
Your tri-color 
Through Europe, uncontrolled! 

Leipsu hath seen our eagle fall, 

Druuk with reuown, worn out with glory ; 
But, with the emblem of old Gaul 
Crowning our standard, we'll recall 
The brightest days of Valmy's story 1 
With terror pale 
Shall despots quail, 
When in their ear the tale is told, 
Of France once more 
Her tricolor 
Preparing to unfold ! 

Trust not the lawless ruffian chiel, 

Worse than the vilest monarch he I 
Down with the dungeon and Bastile' 
But let our country never kneel 
To that grim idol, Anarchy ! 
Strength shall appear 
On our frontier 

France shall be Liberty's stronghold 1 
Then earth once more 
The tri-color 
With blessings shall behold! 

O my old flag! that liest hid, 

There where my sword and musket lie 



Banner, come forth ! for tears unbii) 
Are filling fast a warrioi-'s lid, 
Which thou alone canst dry. 
A soldier's grief 
Shall find relief, 

A veteran's heart shall be consoled 
France shall once more 
Her tri-color 
Triumphantly unfold! 



MALBROUCK. 

M ALBKOUCK the prince of commanders, 

Is gone to the war in Flanders ; 

His fame is like Alexander's ; 

But when will he come home ? [<r 

Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or 

Perhaps he may come at Easter. 

Egad ! he had better make haste, or 

We fear he may never come. \tr. 

For " Trinity Feast" is over, 

And has brought no ne.ws from Dover; 

And Easter is past, moreover ; 

And Malbrouck still delays. \ter 

Milady in her watch-tower 

Spends many a pensive hour, 

Not well knowing why or how her 

Dear lord from England stays. [<- 



While sitting quite forlorn in 
That tower, she spies returning 
A page clad in deep mourning, 
With fainting steps and slow. 



[ttr. 



" page, prithee, come faster ; 

What news do you bring of your master ! 

I fear there is some disaster, 

Your looks are so full of woe." [ter 

" The news I bring, fair lady," 

With sorrowful accent said he, 

" Is one you are not ready 

So soon, alas ! to hear, [tr* 



But since to speak I'm hurried,*' 
Added this page, quite flurried, 
" Malbrouck is dead and buried 1* 
(And here he shed a tear.) 



[fcr 



250 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



" He's dead ! he's dead as a herring ! 

For I beheld his ' herring,' 

And four officers transferring 

His corpse away from the field. \ter. 



Oils officer carried his sabre, 
And he carried it not without labor, 
Much envying his next neighbor, 
Who only bore a shield. 

The third was helmet-bearer 
That helmet which on its wearer 
Filled all who saw with terror, 
And covered a hero's brains. 

Now, having got so far, I 
Find that (by the Lord Harry 1) 
The fourth is left nothing to carry ; 
80 there the thing remains." 



[to-. 



\ter. 



[fcr. 



THE OBSEQUIES OF DAVH? THE 
PAINTER. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER, 

THE pass is barred 1 " FaJI back !" cries the guard ; 

" cross not the French frontier ! " 
As with solemn tread, of the exiled dead the 

funeral drew near. 
For the sentinelle hath noticed well what no 

plume, no pall can hide, 
That yon hearse contains the sad remains of a 

banished regicide! 
"But pity take, for his glory's sake," said his 

children to the guard ; 
" Let his noble art plead on his part let a grave 

be his reward ! 
France knew bis name in her hour of fame, nor 

the aid of his pencil scorned ; 
Let his passport be the memory of the triumphs 

he adorned I " 

" That corpse can't pass ! 'tis my duty, alas ! " 

said the frontier sentinelle. 
44 But pity take, for his country's sake, and his 

clay do not repel 
From its kindred earth, from the land of his 

birth ! " cried the mourners, in their turn. 
Oh ! give to France the inheritance of her 

painter's funeral urn : 



His pencil traced, on the Alpine waste of the 

pathless Mont Bernard, 
Napoleon's course on the snow-white horse! 

let a grave be his reward ! 
For he loved this land ay, his dying hand to 

paint her fame he'd lend her : 
Let her passport be the memory of his native 

country's splendor ! " 

"Ye cannot pass," said the guard, "alas! (for 

tears bedimraed his eyes) 
Though France may count to pass that mount 

a glorious enterprise." 
" Then pity take, for fair Freedom's sake," cried 

the mourners once again : 
"Her favorite was Leonidas, with his band of 

Spartan men ; 
Did not bis art to them impart life's breath, 

that France might see . 
What a patriot few in the gap could do at old 

Thermopylae ? 
Oft by that sight for the coming fight was the 

youthful bosom fired : 
Let his passport be the memory of the valor he 

inspired!'' 

" Ye cannot pass." " Soldier, alas 1 a dismal 

boon we crave 
Say, is there not some lonely spot where his 

friends may dig a grave ? 
Oh! pity take, for that hero's sake whom he 

gloried to portray 
With crown and palm at Notre Dame on his 

coronation-day." 
Amid that band the withered hand of an aged 

pontiff rose, 

And blessing shed on the conqueror's head, for- 
giving his own woes : 
He drew that scene nor dreamt, I ween, that 

yet a little while, 
And the hero's doom would be a tomb far off in 

a lonely isle ! 

"I am charged, alas I not to let you pass," said 

the sorrowing sentinelle ; 
" His destiny must also be a foreign grave ! " 

"'Tis well! 
Hard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a 

place of rest, 
And to bear away his banished clay from the land 

that he loved best 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



251 



Cut let us hence ! Sad recompense for the lustre 
that he cast, 

Blending the rays of modern days with the glo- 
ries of the past ! 

Our sons will read with shame this deed (unless 
my mind doth err) 

,And a future age make pilgrimage to the painter's 
sepulchre ! " 



TO PEOSTRATE ITALY. 

FILICAIA. 

HAST thou not been the nations' queen, fair Italy ! 
though now 

Chance gives to them the diadem that once adorn- 
ed thy brow ? 

Toe beautiful for tyrant's rule, too proud for 
handmaid's duty 

Would thou hadst less of loveliness, or strength 
as well as beauty 1 

The fatal light of beauty bright with fell attrac- 
tion shone, 

Fatal to thee, for tyrants be the lovers thou hast 
won ! 

That forehead fair is doomed to wear its shame's 
degrading proof, 

And slavery's print in damning tint stamped by 
a despot's hoof! 

Were strength and power, maiden ! thy dower, 
soon should that robber-band, 

That prowls unhid thy vines amid, fly scourged 
from off that land ; 

Nor wouldst thou fear yon foreigner, nor be con- 
demned to see 

Drink in the flow of classic Po barbarian cav- 
alry. 

Climate of art ! thy song depart to gild a Van- 
dal's throne ; 

To battle led, their blood is shed in contests not 
their own ; 

Mixed with yon horde, go draw thy sword, nor 
ask what cause 'tis for : 

Thy lot is cast slave to the last ! conquered or 
conqueror ! 



ODE TO THE STATUE OF MOSES 

AT THB FOOT OF THE MAU8OLEUU OF POPE JULIUS n. US THB 
OHUBOH OF ST. PETBB AD VINOULA, ROME TUB MASTERPIECE OF 
HIOHAEL ANQBLO* 

STATUE ! whose giant limbs 
Old Buonarotti planned, 
And Genius carved with meditative hand, 

Thy dazzling radiance dims 
The best and brightest boasts of Sculpture's fa- 
vorite land. 

What dignity adorns 
That beard's prodigious sweep ! 
That forehead, awful with mysterious horns 

And cogitation deep, 
Of some uncommon mind the rapt beholder warns. 

In that proud semblance, well 
My soul can recognize 
The prophet fresh from converse with the 

skies; 

Nor is it hard to tell 
The liberator's name, the Guide of Israel. 

Well might the deep respond 
Obedient to that voice, 
When on the Red Sea shore he waved Ui 

wand, 

And bade the tribes rejoice, 
Saved from the yawning gulf and the Egyptian's 
bond ! 

Fools! in the wilderness 
Ye raised a calf of gold ! 
Had ye then worshipped what I now behold, 

Your crime had been far less 
For ye had bent the knee to one of godlike 
mould I 



LINES ADDRESSED TO THE TIBER. 

BT ALKSSANDRO GUILDI. 

TIBER! my early dream, 
My boyhood's vision of thy classic stream 
Had taught my mind to think 
That over sands of gold 
Thy limpid waters rolled, 
And ever-verdant laurels grew upon thy brink. 



252 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



But far in other guise 
The rude reality hath met mine eyes. 
Here, seated on thy bank, 
All desolate and drear 
Thy margin doth appear, 

With reeping weeds, and shrubs, and vegetation 
rank. 

Fondly I fancied thine 
The wave pellucid, and the Naiad's shrine, 
In crystal grot below ; 
But thy tempestuous course 
Runs turbulent and hoarse, 
And, swelling with wild wrath, thy wintry waters 
flow. 

Upon thy bosom dark 
Peril awaits the light confiding bark, 
In eddying vortex swamped ; 
Foul, treacherous, and deep, 
Thy winding waters sweep, 
Enveloping their prey in dismal ruin prompt 

Fast in thy bed is sunk 
The mountain pine-tree's broken trunk, 
Aimed at the galley's keel ; 
And well thy wave can waft 
Upon that broken shaft 

The barge, whose sunken wreck thy bosom will 
conceal. 

The dog-star's sultry power, 
The summer heat, the noontide's fervid hour, 
That fires the mantling blood, 
Yon cautious swain can't urge 
To tempt thy dangerous surge, 
Or cool his limbs within thy dark insidious flood. 

I've marked thee in thy pride, 
When struggle fierce thy disemboguing tide 
With Ocean's monarch held ; 
But, quickly overcome 
By Neptune's masterdom, 
Back thou hast fled as oft, ingloriously repelled. 

Often, athwart the fields 
A giant's strength thy flood redundant wields, 
Bursting above its brim 
Strength that no dike can check : 
Dire is the harvest-wreck ! 
Buoyant, with lofty horns, th' affrighted bullock 
swims ! 



But still thy proudest boast, 
Tiber! and what brings honor to thee most. 
Is, that thy waters roll 
Fast by th' eternal home 
Of Glory's daughter, ROME ; 
And that thy billows bathe the sacred CAPITOL, 

Famed is thy stream for her, 
Clel^a, thy current's virgin conqueror, 
And him who stemmed the march 
Of Tuscany's proud host, 
When, firm at honor's post, 
He waved his blood-stained blade above the 
broken arch. 

Of Romulus the sons, 
To torrid Africans, to frozen Huns, 
Have taught thy name, flood ! 
And to that utmost verge 
Where radiantly emerge 
Apollo's car of flame and golden-footed stud. 

For so much glory lent, 
Ever destructive of some monument, 
Thou makest foul return ; 
Insulting with thy wave 
Each Roman hero's grave, 
And Scipio's dust that fills yon consecrated urui 



THE ANGEL OF POETRY. 

TO L. E. L. 

LADY ! for thee a holier key shall harmonize the 

chord 
In Heaven's defence Omnipotence drew an 

avenging sword ; 
But when the bolt had crushed revolt, one angel, 

fair though frail, 
Retained his lute, fond attribute! to charm that 

gloomy vale. 
The lyre he kept his wild hand swept ; the music 

he'd awaken 
Would sweetly thrill from the lonely hill where 

he sat- apart forsaken : 
There he'd lan.eni his banishment, his thoughts 

to grief abandon, 
And weep his full. 'Twas pitiful to see him 

weep, fair Landon ! 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



253 



He wept his fault ! Hell's gloomy vau't grew 
vocal with his song ; 

But all throughout derision's shout burst from 
the guilty tlirong : 

God pitying viewed his fortitude in that unhal- 
lowed den ; 

Freed him from hell, but bade him dwell amid 
the sons of men. 

Lady ! for us, an exile thus, immortal Poesy 

Came upon earth, and lutes gave birth to sweet- 
est minstrelsy ; 

And poets wrought their spellwords, taught by 
that angelic mind, 

And music lent soft blandishment to fascinate 
mankind. 

Religion rose ! man sought repose in the shadow 

of her wings ; 
Music for her walked harbinger, and Genius 

touched the strings : 
Tears from the tree of Araby cast on her altar 

burned, 
But earth and wave most fragrance gave where 

Poetry sojourned. 
Vainly, with hate inveterate, hell labored in its 

rage, 

To persecute that angel's lute, and cross his pil- 
grimage ; 
Unmoved and calm, his songs poured balm on 

sorrow all the while ; 
Vice he unmasked, but virtue basked in the 

radiance of his smile. 

Oh, where, among the fair and young, or in what 

kingly court, 

In what gay path where pleasure hath her favor- 
ite resort, 
Where hast thou gone, angelic one? Back to 

thy native skies? 
Or dost thou dwell in cloistered cell, in pensive 

hermit's guise? 
Methinks I ken a denizen of this our island 

nay. 
Leave me to guess, fair poetess ! queen of the 

matchless lay! 
The thrilling line, lady 1 is thine ; the spirit pure 

and free ; 
And England views that angel muse, Landon ! 

revealed in THEE ! 



"GOOD DRY LODGINGS." 

ACCORDING TO HKKAXOEH, SONGSTER. 

MY dwelling is ample, 

And I've set an example 
For all lovers of wine to follow ; 

If my home you should ask, 

I have drained out a cask, 
And I dwell in the fragrant hollow. 
A disciple am I of Diogenes 
Oh 1 his tub a most classical lodging is. 
'Tis a beautiful alcove for thinking ; 
'Tis, besides, a cool grotto flor drinking: 
Moreover, the parish throughout 
You can readily roll it about. 
Oh ! the berth 

For a lover of mirth, 
To revel in jokes, and to lodge in ease, 
Is the classical tub of Diogenes 1 

In politics I'm no adept, 
And into my tub when I've crept, 
They may canvass in vain for my vote. 
For besides, after all the great cry and hubbub, 
REFORM gave no " ten pound franchise " to my 

tub; 

So your " bill " I don't value a groat ! 
And as for that idol of filth and vulgarity. 
Adorned now-a-days, and yolept Popularity, 
To my home 
Should it come, 

And my hogshead's bright aperture darken, 
Think not to such summons I'd hearken. 
No ! I'd say to that ghoul grim and gaunt, 

Vile phantom, avau'ntl 
Get thee out of my sight ! 
For thy clumsy opacity shuts out the light 
Of the gay, glorious sun 
From my classical tun, 
Where a hater of cant and a lover of fun 
Fain would revel in mirth, and would lodge i 

ease 
The classical tub of Diogenes ! 

In the park of St. Cloud there stare at you 
A pillar or statue 

Of my liege, the philosopher cynical : 

There he stands on a pinnacle, 
And his lantern is placed on the ground, 

While, with both eyes fixed wholly on 

The favorite haunt of Napoleon, 



254 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



" A MAN !" he exclaims, " by the powers, I have 

found !" 

But for me, when at eve I go sauntering 
On the boulevards of Athens, " Love " carries my 

lantern; 

nd, egad ! though I walk most demurely, 
For a man I'm not looking full surely ; 
N-ay, I'm sometimes brought drunk home, 
Like honest. Jack Reeve, or like honest Tom 

Duncombe. 
Oh ! the nest 
For a lover of jest 

To revel in fun, and to lodge in ease, 
Is the classical tub of Diogenes. 



THE CARRIER-DOVE OF ATHENS. 
A DREAM, 1822. 

HELEN sat by my side, and I held 

To her lip the gay cup in my bower, 
When a bird at our feet we beheld, 

As we talked of old Greece in that hour ; 
\nd his wiug bore a burden of love, 

To some fair one the secret soul telling 
Oh, drink of my cup, carrier-dove 1 

And sleep on the bosom of Helen. 

Thou art tired rest awhile, and anon 

Thou shall soar, with new energy thrilling, 
To the land of that far-off fair one, 

If such be the task thou'rt fulfilling ; 
But perhaps thou dost waft the last word 

Of despair, wrung from valor and duty 
Then drink of my cup, carrier-bird 1 

And sleep on the bosom of Beauty. 

Ha ! these lines are from Greece 1 Well I knew 

The loved idiom ! Be mine the perusal. 
Son of France, I'm a child of Greece too ; 

And a kinsman will brook no refusal. 
" Greece is free!" all the gods have concurred 

To fill up our joy's brimming measure 
Oh, drink of my cup, carrier bird ! 

And sleep on the bosom of Pleasure. 

Greece is free ! Let us drink to that land, 
To our elders in fame ! Did ye merit 

Thus to struggle alone, glorious band I 
From whose sires we our freedom inherit ! 



The old glories, which kings would destroy, 
Greece regains, never, never to lose 'em 1 

Oh, drink of my cup, bird of joy! 
And sleep on my Helen's soft bosom. 

Muse of Athens! thy lyre quick resume ! 

None thy anthem of freedom shall hinder : 
Give Anacreon joy in his tomb, 

And gladden the ashes of Pindar. 
Helen ! fold that bright bird to thy breast, 

Nor permit him henceforth to desert you 
Oh, drink of my cup, winged guest! 

And sleep on the bosom of Virtue. 

But no, he must hie to his home, 

To the nest where his bride is awaiting ; 
Soon again to our climate he'll come, 

The young glories of Athens relating, 
The baseness of kings to reprove, 

To blush our vile rulers compelling! 
Then drink of my goblet, dove ! 

And sleep on the breast of inv Helen. 



THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 

FBOM THE FRENCH OT MILLEVOTK. 

AUTUMN had stripped the grove, and strewed 

The vale with leafy carpet o'er 
Shorn of its mystery the wood, 

And Philomel bade sing no more 
Yet one still hither comes to feed 

His gaze on childhood's merry path; 
For him, sick youth ! poor invalid 1 

Lonely attraction still it hath. 

" I come to bid you farewell brief, 

Here, my infancy's wild haunt ! 
For death gives in each falliug leaf 

Sad summons to your visitant. 
'Twas a stern oracle that told 

My dark decree, ' The woodland bloom 
Once more 'tis given thee to behold, 

Then comes tK inexorable tomb I ' 

Th' eternal cypress, balancing 

Its tall form like some funeral thing 

In silence o'er my head, 
Tells me my youth shall wither fast, 
Ere the grass fades yea, ere the last 

Stalk from the vine is shed. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



255 



I di ! Yes, with his icy breath 
Fixed Fate Las frozen up my blood ; 

And by the chilly blast of Death 

Nipped is my life's spring in the bud. 

Fall! fall, transitory leaf! 

And cover well this path of sorrow ; 
Hide from my mother's searching grief 

The spot where I'll be laid to-morrow. 

But should my loved one's fairy tread 
Seek the sad dwelling of the dead, 

Silent, alone, at eve; 
Oh, theu with rustling murmur meet 
The echo of her coming feet, 

And sign of welcome give ! " 

Such was the sick youth's last sad thought : 

Then slowly from the grove he moved ; 
Next moon that way a corpse was brought, 

And buried in the bower he loved. 
But at his grave no form appeared, 

No fairy mourner : through the wood 
The shepherd's tread alone was heard 

In the sepulchral solitude. 



LINES ON THE BURIAL OF A FRIEND'S 
DAUGHTER AT PASSY, JULY 16, 1832. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHATEAUBRIAND. 

ERB that coffin goes down, let it bear on its lid 

O 

The garland of roses 
Which the hand of a father, her mourners amid, 

In silence deposes 
"Tie the young maiden's funeral hour ! 
From thy bosom, earth I sprung that young 

budding rose 

*nd 'tis meet that together thy lap should in- 
close 
The young maid and the flower! 

Never, never give back the two symbols so pure 

Which to thee we confide ; 
From the breath of this world and its plague-spot 

secure, , 

Let them sleep side by side 
They shall know not its pestilent power ! 
Boon the breath of contagion, the deadly mildew, 



Or the fierce scorching sun, might parch up a* 

they grew 
The young maid and the flower 1 

Poor Eliza ! for thee life's enjoyments have fled, 

But its pangs too are flown ! 
Then go sleep in the grave ! in that cold bridal 

bed 

Death may call thee his own 
Take this handful cf clay for thy dower I 
Of a texture wert thou far too gentle to last; 
'Twas a morning thy life ! now the matins arc 

past 
For the maid and the flower! 



PRAY FOR ME. A BALLAD. 

non THX FRENCU or UIU.KVCIVH, os nis DK&TH-BED At no TH- 

LAOE UJf NET7H.L1. 

SILBNT, remote, this hamlet seems 

How hushed the breeze ! the eve how <y Im 1 
Light through my dying chamber beams, 

But hope comes not, nor healing balm. 
Kind villagers ! God bless your shed 1 

Hark! 'tis for prayer the evening bell - 
Oh, stay 1 and near my dying bed, 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 

When leaves shall strew the waterfall 

In the sad close of autumn drear, 
Say, " The sick youth is freed from all 

The pangs and woe he suffered here." 
So may ye speak of him that's gone ; 

But when your belfry tolls my knell, 
Pray for the soul of that lost one 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell 1 

Oh 1 pity her, in sable robe, 

Who to my grassy grave will come : 
Nor seek a hidden wound to probe 

She was my love ! point out my tomb j 
Tell her my life should have been hers 

'Twas but a day ! God's will ! 'tis well 
But weep with her, kind villagers! 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 



256 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



THE FRENCH FIDDLER'S LAMENTATION. 

My poor dog! here ! of yesterday's festival-cake 

Eat the poor remains in sorrow; 
For when next a repast you and I shall make, 
It must be on brown bread, which, for charity's 

sake, 
Your master must beg or borrow. 

Of these strangers the presence and pride in 

France 

Is to me a perfect riddle ; 
They have conquered, no doubt, by some fatal 

chance 
For they haughtily said, " You mutt play us a 

dance ! " 
I refused and they broke my fiddle ! 

Of our village the orchestra, crushed at one stroke, 

By that savage insult perished 1 
'Twas then that our pride felt the strangers' yoke, 
When the insolent hand of a foreigner broke 

What our hearts so dearly cherished. 

For whenever our youth heard it merrily sound, 

A flood of gladness shedding, 
At the dance on the green they were sure to be 

found ; 
While its music assembled the neighbors around 

To the village maiden's wedding. 

By the priest of the parish its note was pro- 
nounced 

To be innocent " after service ;" 
And gayly the wooden-shoed'peasantry bounced 
On the bright Sabbath-day, as they danced unde- 
nounced 
By pope, or bonze, or dervis. 

How dismally slow will the Sabbath now run, 
Without fiddle, or flute, or tabor 

How sad is the harvest when music there's 
none 

How sad is the vintage sans fiddle begun ! 
Dismal and tuneless labor ! 

In that fiddle a solace for grief we had got ; 

'Twas of peace the best preceptor ; 
For its sound made all quarrels subside on the 

spot, 
And its bow went much farther to soothe our 

hard lot 
Than the crosier or the sceptre. 



But a truce to my grief! for an insult so base 
A new pulse in my heart hath awoken ! 

That affront I'll revenge on their insolent race ; 

Gird a sword on my thigh let a musket replnce 
The fiddle their haud lias broken. 

My friends, if I fall, my old corpse in the crowd 
Of slaughtered martyrs viewing, 

Shall say, while they wrap my cold limbs in a 
shroud, 

'Twas not hit fault if some a barbarian allowed 
To dance in our country's ruinl' 



CONSOLATION 

ADDRCUXD BT LAUAETIHX TO HIS FBIEND AND BKOTHIB-POn, 
MA2TOEL, BXNISUED FCOM PORTUGAL. 

IF your bosom beats high, if your pulse quickei 

grows, 

When in visions ye fancy the wreath of the Muse, 
There's the path to renown there's the path to 

repose 

Ye must choose ! ye must choose ! 
mm 

Manofil, thus the destiny rules thy career, 
And thy life's web is woven with glory and woe ; 
Thou wert nursed on the lap of the Muse, and 

thy tear 
Shall unceasingly flow. 

Oh, my friend ! do not envy the vulgar their joys, 
Nor the pleasures to which their low nature i 

prone ; 

For a nobler ambition our leisure employs 
Oh, the lyre is our own ! 

And the future is ours 1 for in ages to come, 
The admirers of genius an altar will raise 
To the poet ; and Fame, till her trumpet is dumb, 
Will re-echo our praise. 

Poet! Glory awaits thee ; her temple is thine; 

But there's one who keeps vigil, if entrance you 
claim 

'Tis MISFORTUNE ! she sits in the porch of the 

shrine, 

The pale portress of Fame. 
I 

Saw not Greece an old man, like a pilgrim ar- 
rayed, 

With his tale of old Troy, and a staff in hi* hand, 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHON\. 



237 






Beg his bread at the door of each hut, as he 

strayeu 
Through his own classic hind ? 

And because he had loved, though unwisely, yet 
well; 

Mark what was the boon by bright beauty be- 
stowed 

Blush, Italy, blush ! for yon maniac's cell 
It was Tasso's abode. 

Hand in hand Woe and Genius must walk here 

below, 

And the chalice of bitterness, mixed for mankind, 
Must be quaffed by us all ; but its waters o'er- 

flow 
For the noble of mind. 

Then the heave of thy heart's indignation keep 
down; 

Be the voice of lament never wrung from thy 
pride ; 

Leave to others the weakness of grief; take re- 
nown 
With endurance allied. 

Lei then: banish far off and proscribe (for they 

can) 
Saddened Portugal's son from his dear native 

plains; 

But no tyrant can place the free soul under ban, 
Or the spirit in chains. 

No ! the frenzy of faction, though hateful, though 

strong, 
From the banks of the Tagus can't banish thy 

fame : 
Sfill the halls of old Lisbon shall ring with thy 

song 
And resound with thy name. 

When Dante's attainder his townsmen repealed 
When the sons stamped the deeds of their sires 

with abhorrence, 

They summoned reluctant Ravenna to yield 
Back his fame to his Florence. 

And with both hands uplifted Love's bard ere he 
breathed 

His last sigh, tar away from his kindred and 
home : 

To the Scythians his ashes hath left, but be- 
queathed 
All his glory to Rome. 



THE DOG OF THE THREE DAYS. 
A BALLAD, SEPTKMIIKK, 1831. 

WITH gentle tread, with uncovered head, 

Pass by the Louvre-gate, 
Where buried lie the " IULMI of JULY ! " 
And flowers are flung by tho passers-by, 

And the dog howls desolate. 

That dog had fought 

In the fierce onslaught 
Had rushed with his master mi : 

And both fought well ; 

But the master fell 
And behold the surviving one ! 

By his lifeless clay, 

Shaggy and gray, 
His fellow-warrior stood : 

Nor moved beyond, 

But mingled, fond, 
Hii: tears with his master's blotxl. 

Vigil he keeps 

By those green heaps, 
That tell where heroes be : 

No passer-by 

Can attract his eye, 
For he knows " it is not HE ! " 

At the dawn, when dew 

Wets the garlands new 
That are hung in this place of mourning, 

He will start to meet 

The coming feet 
Of HIM whom he dreamt returning. 

On the grave's wood-cross 

When the chaplets toss, 
By the blasts of midnight shaken, 

How he howleth ! Hark ' 

From that dwelling dark 
The slain he would fain awaken. 

When the snow comes fast 

On the chilly blast, 
Blanching the bleak churchyard. 

With limbs outspread 

On the dismal bed 
Of his liege, he still keeps guard. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Oft in the night, 

With main and might, 
He strives to raise the stone 

Short respite takes 

" If master wakes, 
He'll call me '' then sleeps on. 

Of bayonet-blades, 

Of barricades, 
And guns, he dreameth most ; 

Starts from his dream, 

And then would seem 
To eye a bleeding ghost. 

He'll linger there 

In sad despair, 
And die on his master's grave. 

His name ? "Tis known 

To the dead alone 
He's the dog of the nameless brave I 

Give a tear to the dead, 
And give some bread 
To the dog of the Louvre gate I 
Where buried lie the meu of July, 
An J flowers are flung by the passere-by, 
And the dog howls desolate. 



THE MISTLETOE, 



A TYPB OF THE HEAVEN-BORN. 



A PROPHET sat by the Temple gate, 

And he spake each passer-by 
In thrilling tone with word of weight, 
And fire in his rolling eye. 
" Pause thee, believing Jew ! 
Nor move one step beyond, 
Until thy heart hath pondered 
The mystery of this wand" 
And a rod from his robe he drew 

'Twas a withored bough torn long ago 
From the trunk on which it grew, 
B'. the branch long torn showed a bud new 

born 

That had blossomed there anew. 
'Twas JESSE'S rod ! 
And the bud was the birth of GOD. 



ii. 
A priest of Egypt sat meanwhile 

Under a lofty palm, 
And gazing on his native Nile, 

As in a mirror calm, 
He saw a lowly Lotus plant - 

Pale orphan of the flood. 
And well did th' aged hierophant 

Mark the mysterious bud : 
For he fitly thought, as lie saw it float 

O'er the waste of waters wild, 
That the symbol told of the cradle boat 

Of the wondrous Hebrew child. 
Nor was that bark-like Lotus dumb 

Of a mightier infant yet to come, 
Whose graven skiff in hieroglyph 

Marks obelisk and catacomb. 

in. 
A Greek sat on Colonna's cape, 

In his lofty thoughts alone, 
And a volume lay on Plato's lap, 

For he was that lonely one. 
And oft as the sage gazed o'er the page 

His forehead radiant grew ; 
For in Wisdom's womb of the Word to com* 

The vision blessed his view. 
He broached that theme in the Academe, 

In the teachful olive grove ; 
And a chosen few that secret knew 

In the Porch's dim alcove. 

IV. 

A Sibyl sat in Cumse's cave 

'Twas the hour of infant Rome 
And vigil kept, and warning gave 

Of the holy one to come. 
'Twas she who had culled the hallowed branch. 

And sat at the silent helm, 
When ^Eneas, sire of Rome, would la'unch 

His bark o'er Hades' realm. 
And now she poured her vestal soul 

Through many a bright illumined scroll ; 
By priest and sage of an after-age 

Conned in the lofty capitol. 

v. 
A Druid stood in the dark oak wood 

Of a distant northern land, 
And he seemed to hold a sickle of gold 

In the grasp of his withered hand ; 
And slowly moved around the girth 

Of an aged oak, to see 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



259 



If a blessed plant of wondrous birth 
Had clung to the old oak tree. 

And anon he knelt, and from his belt 
Unloosened bis golden blade, 

Thee rose and culled the MISTLETOE 
Under the woodland shade. 

VI. 

O blessed bough ! meet emblem thou 

Of all dark Egypt knew, 
Of all foretold to the wise of old, 

To Roman, Greek, and Jew. 
And long God grant, time-honored plant, 

May we behold thee hung 
In cottage small, as in baron's hall, 

Banner and shield among. 
Thus fitly rule the mirth of Yule 

Aloft in thy place of pride ; 
Still usher forth in each land of the north 

The solemn Christmas tide. 



SHOOTING STARS. 

* BK.M Hfc.'iD . they say that a star presides 

Over life S " " 'Tis a truth, my son ! 
Its secrets from men the firmament hides, 

But tells to some favored one." 
" Shepherd ! they say that a link unbroken 

Connects our fate with some favorite star ; 
What may yon shooting light betoken, 

That falls, falls, and is quenched afar ? " 

" The death of a mortal, my son, who held 

In his banqueting-hall high revel ; 
And his music was sweet, and his wine excelled, 

Life's path seemed long and level : 
No sign was given, no word was spoken, 

His pleasure death comes to mar." 
" But what does yon milder light betoken, 

That falls, falls, and is quenched afar ' " 

* Tis tne knell of beauty ! it marks the close 

Of a pure and gentle maiden ; 
And her cheek was warm with its bridal rose, 

And her brow with its bride-wreath laden : 
The thousand hopes young love had woken 

Lie crushed, and her dream is past." 
" But what c^n yon rapid light betoken. 

That falls, falls, and is quenched so fast?" 

*'Tis the emblem, my son, of quick decay ! 
'Tis a rich lord's child newly born : 



The cradle that holds his inanimate clay, 

Gold, purple, and silk adorn ; 
The panders prepared through life to haunt him . 

Must seek some one else in his room." 
" Look, now ! what means yon dismal phantom^ 

That falls, falls, and is lost in gboni ?" 

" There, son ! I see the guilty thought 

Of a haughty statesman fail, 
Who the poor man's comforts sternly sough I 

To plunder or curtail. 
His former sycophants have cursed 

Their idol's base endeavor." 
" But watch the light that now has burst, 

Falls, falls, and is quenched forever 1" 

" What a loss, my son, was there ! 

Where shall hunger now seek relief f 
The poor, who are gleaners elsewhere, 

Could reap in his field full sheaf! 
On the evening he died, his door 

Was thronged with a weeping crowd." 
" Look, shepherd ! there's one star more 

That falls, and is quenched in a cloud." 

" 'Tis a monarch's star 1 Do thou preserve 

Thy innocence, my child I 
Nor from thy course appointed swerve, 

But there shine calm and mild. 
Of thy star, if the sterile ray 

For no useful purpose shone, 
At tliy death, ' See that star,' they'd say ; 

' It falls 1 falls ! is past and gone ! ' "" 



A PANEGYRIC ON GEESE (1810). 

I HATE to sing your hackneyed birde 

So, doves and swans, a truce ! 
Your nests have been too often stiridd 
My hero shall be in a word 
A goose. 

The nightingale, or else " bulbul,* 

By Tommy Moore let loose, 
Is grown intolerably dull 
/ from the feathered nation cull 
A goose. 

Can roasted Philomel a liver 
Fit for a pie produce f 



260 



TOEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONV. 



Fat pies that on the Rhine's sweet river 
Fair Strasburg bakes. Pray who's the giver 
A goose ! 

An ortolan is good to eat, 

A partridge is of use ; 
But they are scarce whereas you meet 
At Paris, ay, in every street. 

A goose ! 

\Yhen tired of war the Greeks became, 

They pitched Troy to the deuce ; 
Ulysses, then, was not to blame 
For teaching them the noble "game 
Of goose." 

May Jupiter and Bonaparte, 

Of thunder less profuse, 
Suffer their eagles to depart, 
Encourage peace, and take to heart 
A goose. 



ODE TO TIME. 

IF my mind's independence one day I'm to sell, 
If with Vice in her pestilent haunts 1'tn to 
dwell 

Then in mercy, I pray thee, O TIME ! 
Ere that day of disgrace and dishonor comes on, 
Let my life be cut short! better, better be gone 

Than live here on the wages of crime. 

But if yet I'm to kindle a flame in the soul 
Of the noble and free if my voice can console, 

I a the day of despondency, some 
If I'm destined to plead in the poor mau's de- 
fence 
If my writings can force from tlie national sense 

An enactment of joy for his home: 1 

Time ! retard thy departure ! and linger awhile 
Let nr- " songs" still awake of my mother the 

smile 

Of my sister the joy, as she sings. 
But, GLORY and VIRTUE ! your care I engage ; 
When I'm old when my head shall be silvered 

with age, 
Come aud shelter my brow with your wings ! 

1 Mahony allota to O'Oonnell't conduct on the Poor Law for 



THE GARRET OF BERANGER. 

OH ! it was here that Love his gifts bestow od 

On youth's wild age ! 
Gladly once more I seek my youth's abode. 

In pilgrimage'! 
Here my young mistress with her poet dareJ 

Reckless to dwell : 
She was sixteen, I twenty, and we shared 

This attic cell. 



Yes, 'twas a garret! be it known to all 

Here was Love's shrine ; 
There read, in charcoal traced along the wall, 

Th' unfinished line 

Here was the board where kindred hearts would 
biend 

The Jew can tell 
IIow oft I pawned my watch, to feast a friend 

In attic cell ! 

Oh ! my Lisette's fair form could I recall 

With fairy wand ; 

There she would blind the window with am 
shawl 

Bashful, yet fond. 

What though from whom she got her dress I've 
since 

Learnt but too well, 
Still in those days I envied not a prince 

In attic cell ! 

Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst, 

'Mid the bright bowls : 
Yes, it was here Marengo's triumph first 

Kindled our souls. 

Bronze cannon roared ; France with redoubled 
might 

Felt her heart swell. 
Proudly we drank our consul's health that night 

In attic cell ! 

Dreams of my joyful youth ! I'd freely give, 

Ere my life's close, 
All the dull days I'm destined yet to live, 

For one of those. 
Where shall I now find raptures that were felt, 

Joys that befell, 
And hopes that dawned at tweity, when I dwell 

In attic cell ? 






i'OEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



2fil 



POLITICAL ECONOMY OF THE GYPSIES. 

SONS of w